Beyond the Tower
by Maerlyn of Miria
Summary: Mark Rimer and Alison Hartley, first encountered in "Ghost Dog," and again in "The Rode to the Tower," are plunged into an interdimentional conflict, the outcome of which could either save, or destroy all worlds. New Revisions!
1. Chapter 1 Argument And Prologue

Argument:

Beyond The Tower is the third volume of a longer tale which recounts the adventures, in this world and many others, of Mark Rimer and Alison Hartley, a seemingly ordinary 21st century couple, who seem to attract the strangest events. The first volume, Ghost Dog, which takes place in our world, tells how Mark and Alison come into possession of the old Joe Camber place in the small town of Castle Rock, Maine. No sooner do they arrive, than strange events begin to take place, both in their lives and in the lives of those around them.

Soon after arriving, they meet Marie Vannay-Andris-Merril-Davis, who, after the death of her husband and childhood friends in another world, crossed dimensions and was adopted by old Pop Merril. Marie is one of the last of the gunslingers of Mid-World and is the only law the local Walk Ins, those who cross from world to world, acknowledge.

Mark and Alison learn from Marie that their home was once the sight of four deaths, deaths caused by a rabid dog, which was, at the end, more than just a dog, and that the murderous spirit that drove the animal may still be at large somewhere on the property. As time goes on, supernatural manifestations begin to make themselves felt, not only on the old Camber property, but elsewhere in town as well. Then, people begin to die, torn to pieces by what appears to be a savage beast.

After a confrontation that lasts a day and half a night, Mark, Alison, Marie, and a family who stopped to have their car fixed manage to best the marauding creature of darkness.

Shortly after this, Mark and Alison discover a free-standing door with the cryptic word "ka-tet" written or carved into it in their back field. Ghost Dog ends with Mark and Alison stepping through the door and into another world.

The second volume, The Rode to the Tower, begins several months later in Mid-World, where Mark and Alison have encountered Stephen Deschain the younger, another descendent of the ancient line of gunslingers dating back to Arthur Eld, he who once swore to defend the Dark Tower which stands at the heart of all universes and holds the whole of existence together.

Stephen has trained Mark and Alison in the ways of the gun and has persuaded them to accompany him on a quest to locate his long lost brother Roland of Gilead and his ka-tet and insure that when they reach the Tower, for which Roland has searched all his life, they reach it in the correct world. Although the tower exists in many forms in many worlds, it exists in two worlds as itself, one in "Tower Keystone," the world in which Mark and Alison find themselves after stepping through the door and one in "Tower World B," a world almost identical to Tower Keystone except for a few differences.

In Tower World B, where Roland and his ka-tet have found themselves following a crossing back to an alternate version of our world which has been ravaged by a plague, the Breakers, humans with various psychic abilities who have been abducted by agents of the Crimson King, he who seeks to bring down the tower and rule the great discord which will be all that remains, are based in a minimum security facility known as either Blue Heaven, The Devar-Toi, or Algul Siento, while in Tower Keystone, the Breakers are imprisoned in a Hell-like no-place called Din-Tah, The Burning Caves, or The Furnace Lands.

After several adventures on their rode, the three encounter another door which takes them to the deserted town of Fedic in Tower World B, where they meet Roland, Eddie Dean of New York, Susannah Dean of New York, Jake Chambers of New York, Mordred deschain, the supernaturally conceived son of Roland and the Crimson King, and Oy, a billy-bumbler, of Mid-World. They convince Roland's ka-tet, thanks to the guns Stephen wares and his use of the High Speech of Gilead, that they are "true," and to follow them back through the door and into the proper world, since their quest in Tower World B, the freeing of the Breakers from the Devar-Toi, is finished and that the tower in Tower World B is no more than a trap designed to capture the one or ones, whose ka it is to climb the tower in Tower Key Stone and best the Crimson King, who unlike the one in Tower world B, who is trapped on a balcony one level up the side of the false tower, is imprisoned in a sell at the top of the true tower and who still has designs on destroying it and freeing his physical being to join with his dark essence and bring about the end of all existence.

After crossing the white lands of Empathica where Mordred gives his life to save the ka-tet from destruction by a being known as Dandelo, the extended ka-tet reach Can'-Ka No Rey, which is both the name of the rode to the tower and the field of roses in which the tower stands, there to climb the tower and confront that which sits, a prisoner, within. Beyond the Tower begins as Mark, Alison, Stephen, Roland, Eddie, Susannah, Jake, and Oy approach the tower and prepare for the final battle.

Prologue:

Through The Final Door.

Mark Rimer, Alison Hartley, and Stephen Deschain the younger followed as Roland, Eddie, Susannah, Jake, and Oy began making their way, Eddie carrying Susannah, along the road which led toward the endless field of singing roses, toward the tower which stood before them in the light of the setting sun, its rising spiral of windows reflecting the day's dying light. The song of the roses was all around them, combined with that of the tower, a song that called to them all.

"Come, gunslingers, come. Embrace your ka and come. The final quest is achieved. Come, gunslingers, come and enter."

They were climbing a gently upsloping hill not much different from hundreds of others they had climbed on their final road. The overgrown road they followed was lined on either side with the remains of rock walls; wild roses grew in amiable profusion amid the tumbles of fieldstone. In the open, brush-dotted land beyond these fallen walls were strange stone edifices. Some looked like the ruins of castles; others had the appearance of Egyptian obelisks; a few were clearly Speaking Rings of the sort where demons may be summoned; one ancient ruin of stone pillars and plinths had the look of Stone-henge. One almost expected to see hooded Druids gathered in the center of that great circle, perhaps casting the runes, but the keepers of these monuments, these precursors of the Great Monument, were all gone. Only small herds of bannock grazed where once they worshipped.

Now, as they rose from each dip and topped each hill, the Dark Tower seemed to spring closer. More of the spiraling windows which ran around its great circumference became visible. How much was visible over the horizon? How much were the gunslingers looking at? A hundred feet? Perhaps as much as two hundred? They didn't know, but they could see at least twenty of the narrow slit-windows which ascended the Tower's barrel in a spiral, and they could see the oriel window at the top, its many colors blazing in the spring sunshine, the black center seeming to peer back at them like the very Eye of Todash. The gunslingers could see two steel posts jutting from the top. The clouds which followed the Paths of the three working Beams seemed to flow away from the tips, making a great X -shape with a vertical line through it in the sky. The combined voice of the roses and the tower grew louder, and all the ka-tet realized they were singing the names of the world. Of all the worlds. they didn't know how they could know that, but they were sure of it.

They soon came to the foot of a much steeper hill. It was, the gunslingers' hearts told them, the last hill. Can'-Ka No Rey was beyond. At the top, on the right, was a cairn of boulders that had once been a small pyramid. What remained stood about thirty feet high. Roses grew around its base in a rough crimson ring. As they climbed, the top of the Dark Tower once more appeared. Each step brought a greater length of it into view. Now they could see the balconies with their waist-high railings. There was no need of binoculars or a telescope, one of which Mark carried in his pack; the air was preternaturally clear. Roland put the distance remaining at no more than five miles. Perhaps only three. Level after level rose before the gunslingers' not-quite-disbelieving eyes.

At length, they crested the final hill and looked ahead. Below them was a great blanket of red that stretched to the horizon in every direction. The road cut through it, a dusty white line perfectly straight and perhaps twelve feet wide. In the middle of the rose-field stood the sooty dark gray Tower, just as it had stood in Roland's dreams; its windows gleamed in the sun. Here the road split and made a perfect white circle around the Tower's base to continue on the other side, in a direction Roland said was now likely dead east instead of south-by-east. Another road ran off at right angles to the Tower Road: to the north and south, if he was right in believing that the points of the compass had been re-established. From above, the Dark Tower would look like the center of a blood-filled gunsight.

The shadow of the pyramid's tip had come to touch the road; now the sky in the west changed from the orange of a reaptide bonfire to that cauldron of blood Roland had seen in his dreams ever since childhood. When it did, the call of the Tower doubled, then trebled. Roland felt it reach out and grasp him with invisible hands, as did the others. The time of their combined destiny was come.

As they went, Roland raised the horn of Eld to his lips, winding it as he had done in a thousand forgotten dreams.

"Now I shall sing all their names," he thought.

As the echoes of the horn died away, Alison took from her purse the "Dark Bells" of the Little Sisters which Stephen Deschain had rescued from the desert where Roland had let them fall after the death of Jenna, the sister who had saved his life uncounted years ago. She donned the wimple and as she slowly shook her head the dark bells rang out. Their note, unlike that of Eld's horn, did not die away. Rather, it seemed to grow and become a sweet song of insects that sounded almost, but not quite, like crickets.

"Now comes Roland to the dark tower!" Roland cried, "I have been true and I still carry the gun of my Father and you will open to my hand!" I come in the name of Stephen Deschain the elder, he of Gilead! I come in the name of Gabrielle Deschain, she of Gilead! I come in the name of Cortland Andris, he of Gilead! I come in the name of Marie Andris, she of Gilead! I come in the name of Cuthbert Allgood, he of Gilead! I come in the name of Alain Johns, he of Gilead! I come in the name of Jamie DeCurry, he of Gilead! I come in the name of Vannay the Wise, he of Gilead! I come in the name of Thomas Whitman, he of Gilead! I come in the name of Hax the Cook, he of Gilead! "I come in the name of David the hawk, he of Gilead, and the sky! I come in the name of Susan Delgado, she of Mejis! I come in the name of Sheemie Ruiz, he of Mejis! I come in the name of Pere Callahan, he of Jerusalem's Lot, and the roads! I come in the name of Ted Brautigan, he of America! I come in the name of Dinky Earnshaw, he of America! I come in the name of Aunt Talitha, she of River Crossing, and will lay her cross here, as I was bid! I come in the name of Stephen King, he of Maine! "I come in the name of Oy, the brave, he of Mid-World! I come in the name of Eddie Dean, he of New York! I come in the name of Susannah Dean, she of New York! I come in the name of Jake Chambers, he of New York, whom I call my own true son! I come in the name of Patrick Danville, he of America! I come in the name of Stephen Deschain the younger, the brother I never knew, he of Gilead! I come in the name of Mark Rimer, he of America! I come in the name of Alison Hartley, she of America! "I am Roland of Gilead, and I come as myself; you will open to me."

As Roland said the last words, and an answering horn blast came from the roses of Can'-Ka No Rey, Mark noticed that the ground behind them was swarming with small black insects twice the size of ants. These, he knew, were the "Little Doctors," called by the Dark Bells and he knew also why they had obeyed the summons. The Dark Bells had belonged to Sister Jenna and she was linked to them, a link that not even death or supposed death could break. Roland had told them all of how Jenna had died, struck by the rays of the rising sun, and had become nothing but a swarm of the "Doctor Bugs," as he had then called them. Now, thanks to the ringing of the Dark Bells, she had come, possibly to aid them. After all, there had yet been no sign of Los, although they had been warned that he would attempt to stop them reaching the tower by any means necessary.

Suddenly, before them stood a man robed in black, his dark eyes on them.

"Gunslingers," he said in a cold voice, "you have yet to deal with me. Did you imagine I would simply allow you to enter the tower unchallenged?"

"Martin," Roland breathed, "Martin Broadcloke. Once again we meet."

"For the last time, Roland," the Dark Man replied, "remember my warning. This time I won't go away."

"And remember ours in Fedic," Mark said, moving up beside Roland and dropping his hands to the buts of the guns he wore slung low and tied down gunslinger fashion, "this time you'll die. You've caused us a great deal of trouble and we'll be rid of you for good if you don't move aside."

"Oh, Sai Rimer," said The Man In Black, turning his eyes on Mark, "you talk a good game, but can you deliver? Perhaps this time you've bitten off a bit more than you can chew. Remember, I'm not, strictly speaking, human. I darkle. I tinct. It has been given to me to live backwards in time. I am known as the Ageless Stranger, among other names. I have been called the Wizard, the Magician, and I have even been called Merlin, or Maerlyn, but who cares, for I was never that one, and..."

Before the Man In Black could go on any further, an unearthly shriek came from somewhere above them.

"Eeeeeeeeeee! Die, gunslingers! Eeeeeeeeeee!"

Mark's eyes were drawn upward toward the top of the tower. In its topmost window he spied a murderous red eye.

"Eye of the king," he thought, "Abbalah, Abbalah-doon, Can-tah Abbalah, Ram Abbalah, Sheol Munshun."

Then came high, chattering laughter that set Mark's teeth on edge; beside him, Eddie covered his ears. The lunacy in that laughter was almost unbearable.

Alison's eyes, unlike Marks' never left the Dark Man. As Mark looked toward the Tower, she drew her guns with liquid speed and leveled them at the creature before her.

"Die!" she cried, and squeezed both triggers. All twelve slugs misfired.

"Oh, but this is so boring," the Dark Man tittered, "this was tried before, but oh, you weren't there. Were you? Those won't work against me. Only misfire against me, Alison."

In front of Alison, Roland turned toward the Man In Black. In his hand was one of the weapons Dinky Earnshaw and Ted Brautigan had left for the ka-tet in Tower World B.

"You forget, Martin, or Walter, or whatever you call yourself now," he said, "the guns of my world are not all we have."

Roland squeezed off three shots, aiming directly at the head of the sorcerer who had plagued his steps for so long. The bullets struck home and just for a moment a look of surprise crossed the Man In Black's features, then the physical form inhabiting the black robes was gone and the robes fell, empty, to the ground. For a moment longer, something seemed to stand where the Dark Man had stood and then it was gone, vanishing back the way the gunslingers had come with a sound of vile wings.

Alison turned to Mark.

"Are you alright?" she asked. Mark nodded and the ka-tet went on toward the tower.

Roland came to it with the oddest feeling of remembrance; what Susannah and Eddie called déjà vu.

The roses of Can'-Ka No Rey opened before the gunslingers in a path to the Dark Tower, the yellow suns deep in their cups seeming to regard them like eyes.

Once more Roland winded the horn of Eld and once more the roses answered.

They stopped for a moment still ten paces from the ghostwood door in the Tower's base, letting the voice of the roses, that welcoming horn that had answered Roland's, echo away to nothing. The feeling of déjà vu that had come over Roland was still strong, almost as though he had been here after all. And of course he had been, in ten thousand premonitory dreams.

After a moment, the gunslingers walked on to where the path ended at the steel-banded slab of black ghostwood.

At the Tower's foot Roland stopped and took the silver cross he had been given in the town of River Crossing and laid it on the ground. Before them the final door stood, on its surface a single word was written in the High Speech of Gilead. The word was "unfound." As Roland's hand touched the door the first two letters of the inscription vanished leaving the word "found."

As the door swung open and the ka-tet entered Roland said, "Look not in any of the rooms. What you would find there are mere images of the past. They are unimportant."

At their feet, a stairway spiraled upward out of sight.

There was a sighing voice, "Welcome, Roland, thee of Eld. Welcome, Stephen, thee of Eld. welcome, Eddie, thee of New York. Welcome, Susannah, thee of New York. Welcome, Jake, the of New York. Welcome, Oy, thee of Mid-World. Welcome, Mark, thee of America. Welcome, Alison, thee of America." It was the Tower's voice. This edifice was not stone at all, although it might look like stone; this was a living thing, Gan himself, likely, and the pulse Roland had felt deep in his head even thousands of miles from here had always been Gan's beating life-force.

"Commala, gunslingers. Commala-come-come."

And wafting out came the smell of alkali, bitter as tears. The smell of…what? What, exactly? Before Roland could place it the odor was gone, leaving him to surmise he had imagined it.

The ka-tet turned to the stairs and the Song of the Tower, which Roland had always heard-even in Gilead, where it had hidden in his mother's voice as she sang him her cradle songs, finally ceased. There was another sigh. The door swung shut with a boom, but they were not left in blackness. The light that remained was that of the shining spiral windows, mixed with the glow of sunset.

"There isn't enough room for us to spread out," Mark said, "how do we do this?

"We go in single file," Roland answered, "I will lead, then Stephen, you, Alison, then Eddie and Susannah. Jake and Oy are drogue."

"Ogue!" Oy agreed.

As they stood at the foot of the seemingly unending stairway, Roland looked toward their destination. "Now comes Roland," he called, and the words seemed to spiral up into infinity. "Thee at the top, hear and make me and my ka-tet welcome if you would. If you're our enemy, know that we mean no ill."

They began to climb, with the outer wall of the tower rising to their right. To their left, the inner wall formed an unbroken cylinder of gray stone.

Nineteen steps brought them to the first landing and to each one thereafter. A door stood open here and beyond it was a small round room. The stones of its wall were carved with thousands of overlapping faces. Many they knew, one was the face of Calvin Tower, peeping slyly over the top of an open book. The faces looked at them and they heard their murmuring.

"Welcome Roland, you of the many miles and many worlds; welcome thee of Gilead, thee of Eld." The others were likewise greeted and for each one, a title was given.

On the far side of the room was a door flanked by dark red swags traced with gold. About six feet up from the door-at the exact height of Roland's, Mark's, and Eddie's eyes-was a small round window, little bigger than an outlaw's peekhole. There was a sweet smell, and this one Roland identified as the bag of pine sachet his mother had placed first in his cradle, then, later, in his first real bed. It brought back those days with great clarity, as aromas always do; if any sense serves us as a time machine, it's that of smell.

The room was unfurnished, but a small conglomeration of objects lay on the floor. Two of the objects were small cedar clips, their bows wrapped in bits of blue silk ribbon. Roland had seen such things long ago, in Gilead; must once have worn one himself. When the sawbones cut a newly arrived baby's umbilical cord, separating mother from child, such a clip was put on above the baby's navel, where it would stay until the remainder of the cord fell off, and the clip with it. The navel itself was called tet-ka can Gan. The bits of silk on these ones told that they had belonged to boys. A girl's clip would have been wrapped with pink ribbon. The clips sat atop a pile of white blankets, such as Mark, Alison, Eddie, Susannah, and Jake had seen in hospitals.

"Twas my own," Roland thought, looking at one of the clips. He regarded it a moment longer, fascinated, then put it carefully back where it had been. Where it belonged. When he stood up again, he saw a baby's face ... "Can this be my darling bah-bo? If you say so, let it be so!" among the multitude of others. It was contorted, as if its first breath of air outside the womb had not been to its liking, already fouled with death. Soon it would pronounce judgment on its new situation with a squall that would echo throughout the apartments of Steven and Gabrielle, causing those friends and servants who heard it to smile with relief. Only Marten Broadcloak would scowl. The birthing was done, and it had been a livebirth, tell Gan and all the gods thankya. There was an heir to the Line of Eld, and thus there was still the barest outside chance that the world's rueful shuffle toward ruin might be reversed.

The ka-tet left that room, Roland's sense ofdéjà vu stronger than ever. So was the sense that they had entered the body of Gan himself.

They turned to the stairs and once more began to climb.

Nineteen steps more, and another landing, and another door. The room thus revealed contained two home-made diapers, as well as five which were quite clearly purchased in stores in the world from which Eddie, Susannah, Jake, Mark, and Alison had come. This room contained a mingled scent of soap, warm water, and what could only be scented candles.

Roland's memories in this room were of his Father and Mother, they who had given him life, never suspecting that another of their children had lived, had been spirited away from Gilead immediately following his birth, had been marked for death by Martin Broadcloke, had been rescued from his fate by an old man who, some said, was no more a man than the sorcerer who had abducted the second child of Deschain from his cradle.

Their attention was then drawn to one of the faces carved into the curve of the wall. This was the face of Mordred, who, at the end had given his life to protect them. They saw no hatefulness there now but only the lonely sadness of an abandoned child. That face was as lonesome as a train-whistle on a moonless night, a state of being Mark and alison could both identify with. There had been no clip for Mordred's navel when he came into the world, only the mother he had taken for his first meal. No clip, never in life, for Mordred had never been part of Gan's tet. No, not he.

Also in this room was the smell of talc put on Roland by his mother while he lay naked on a towel, fresh from his bath and playing with his newly discovered toes. She had soothed his skin with it, singing as she caressed him, "Baby-bunting, baby dear, baby bring your basket here!

This smell too was gone as quickly as it had come.

On the third landing Roland looked through the door and saw a corduroy dress that had no doubt been his when he'd been only a year old. Among the faces on this wall he saw that of his father, but as a much younger man. Later on that face had become cruel, events and responsibilities had turned it so. But not here. Here, Steven Deschain's eyes were those of a man looking on something that pleases him more than anything else ever has, or ever could. Here Roland smelled a sweet and husky aroma he knew for the scent of his father's shaving soap. A phantom voice whispered, "Look, Gabby, look you! He's smiling! Smiling at me! And he's got a new tooth!

The others also saw reminders of their pasts and faces they knew well.

On the floor of the fourth room was the collar of Roland's first dog, Ring-A-Levio. Ringo, for short. He'd died when Roland was three, which was something of a gift. A boy of three was still allowed to weep for a lost pet, even a boy with the blood of Eld in his veins. Here the gunslinger smelled an odor that was wonderful but had no name, and knew it for the smell of the Full Earth sun in Ringo's fur.

Perhaps two dozen floors above Ringo's Room was a scattering of breadcrumbs and a limp bundle of feathers that had once belonged to a hawk named David,no pet he, but certainly a friend. The first of Roland's many sacrifices to the Dark Tower. On one section of the wall Roland saw David carved in flight, his stubby wings spread above all the gathered court of Gilead, Marten the Enchanter not least among them. And to the left of the door leading onto the balcony, David was carved again. Here his wings were folded as he fell upon Cort like a blind bullet, heedless of Cort's upraised stick.

Old times.

Old times and old crimes.

Not far from Cort was the laughing face of the gunny he had played at Watch Me that night, as Marie, Able Vannay's daughter had been not yet a gunslinger, and he had not been about to violate the vow he had made to her and take a whore. So he had instead passed the time at cards till the place had closed, at which time he had returned to the castle, where his Father had found him the next morning. The smell in David's Room was that of frying pork and the phantom smell of apple-beer.

As the others followed Roland, they noticed that close to the physical remains of David, was a home-made sling, and several unfired bullets.

"I do not shoot with my hand," Roland thought, "he who shoots with his hand..."

"The tower is telling our story," Alison whispered in wonder.

"But it tells of only the death," Roland said, "and I have sown much death in my quest to reach it."

"But out of death came life," Stephen added, "and not all the deaths were of your making."

"He always blames himself," Eddie contributed, "it's something I've been trying to get him to quit, but he just won't, no matter what Suse or I say."

"It's not just telling of the death," Mark said as the ka-tet looked into the room above David's and saw a pair of apprentice revolvers, another pair of guns, these ones the big ones with the sandalwood grips, a gun Jake recognized as belonging to his Father, a duplicate of Roland's knife, and, strangest of all, a set of tools Mark recognized as the first ones with which he had ever repaired a car.

"Think you that these reminders of the past are a distraction?" Stephen inquired as they began climbing again.

"I know not," Roland answered, "I know only that we must press on."

"Here's a question nobody thought to ask," Mark said, "how the hell'd you know what'd be in the rooms in the first place? Furthermore, how'd you know there'd be rooms inside the tower? For all any of us knew, the tower contained just stairs and nothing else."

To this, Roland made no answer.

There was no more red to light their way now, only the eldritch blue glow of the windows, glass eyes that were alive, glass eyes that looked upon the intruders. Outside the Dark Tower, the roses of Can'-Ka No Rey had closed for another day. Part of Roland's mind marveled that he should be here at all; that he had one by one surmounted the obstacles placed in his path, as dreadfully single-minded as ever. "I'm like one of the old people's robots," he thought. "One that will either accomplish the task for which it has been made or beat itself to death trying ."

Another part of him was not surprised at all, however. This was the part that dreamed as the Beams themselves must, and this darker self thought again of the horn that had fallen from Cuthbert's fingers, Cuthbert, who had gone to his death laughing. The horn that might to this very day have lain where it had fallen on the rocky slope of Jericho Hill if not for his picking it up when he had crawled from the dead pile in which he had hidden following that fateful last battle.

"And of course I've seen these rooms before! They're telling my life, after all, all our lives."

Indeed they were. Floor by floor and tale by tale, not to mention death by death, the rising rooms of the Dark Tower recounted Roland Deschain's life and quest, together with those of his tet. Each held its memento; each its signature aroma. Many times there was more than a single floor devoted to a single year, but there was always at least one. And after the thirty-eighth room (which is nineteen doubled, do ya not see it), Roland wished to look no more. This one contained the charred stake to which Susan Delgado had been bound. They did not enter, but looked at the face upon the wall. That much Roland owed her. She had been loved by Sheemie, a love that was eventually returned by her, but, love or no love, in the end she had still burned.

"This is a place of death," Roland said, "and not just here. All these rooms. Every floor."

"Yes, gunslinger," whispered the Voice of the Tower, "but only because your life has made it so. But there is hope, this time. For you have finally learned that those you met on your long journey are not simply tools for you to use and then discard, stepping stones on your path to the tower. Your humanity has been won. There is hope, this time, may it please ya?"

After the thirty-eighth floor, Roland climbed faster, the others matching his pace.

Standing outside, Roland had judged the Tower to be roughly six hundred feet high. But as the ka-tet peered into the hundredth room, and then the two hundredth, they felt sure they must have climbed eight times six hundred. Soon they would be closing in on the mark of distance Mark, Alison, and the others from America-side called a mile. That was more floors than there possibly could be, no Tower could be a mile high! but still they climbed, climbed until they were nearly running, yet never did they tire. It once crossed Roland's mind that he'd never reach the top; that the Dark Tower was infinite in height as it was eternal in time. But after a moment's consideration he rejected the idea, for it was his life the Tower was telling, and while that life had been long, it had by no means been eternal. And as it had had a beginning, marked by the cedar clip and the bit of blue silk ribbon, so it would have an ending.

Soon now, quite likely.

The light they sensed behind their eyes was brighter now, and did not seem so blue. They passed a room containing Zoltan, the bird from the dweller's hut on the edge of the desert Roland had crossed alone in search of the Man In Black. They passed a room containing the atomic pump from the Way Station. They climbed more stairs, paused outside a room containing a dead lobstrosity, and by now the light they sensed was much brighter and no longer blue.

It was…

Roland was quite sure it was…

It was sunlight. Past twilight it might be, with Old Star and Old Mother shining from above the Dark Tower, but Roland was quite sure he was seeing-or sensing-sunlight.

The ka-tet climbed on without looking into any more of the rooms, without bothering to smell their aromas of the past.

As the ascent continued, the gunslingers began to notice a sound coming from above. It seemed to be the ticking of thousands, or possibly millions of clocks.

The source of the sound became apparent when they reached the landing Mark guessed as the one-thousand, nine-hundreth, which is nineteen times a hundred, may it please ya. The room revealed by the open door seemed to be filled with every type of clock imaginable, all of which were running, all of which seemed to be set to a different time.

"What are they?" Eddie breathed.

"They are the clocks that keep time for all who live," Roland replied.

They moved on, stopping again at the next landing, whose door revealed what appeared to be a well filled with a glowing liquid.

"The Well of Life," Susannah said in awe, "this is where it all starts."

"It was not like this any of the other times," Roland said, his face betraying the fact that something was going on inside his head.

"What the hell are you talking about?" Eddie asked.

"This is not the first time I have reached the tower," Roland answered, "every other time, I reached and entered the tower alone, and according to Stephen, I was not even in the right world. I have been through the loop eighteen times, and on none of those occasions did I possess Eld's horn. I never stopped to pick it up when it fell from Cuthbert's hands at Jericho Hill. But this time, when I found myself back in the desert, it was hanging from my gunbelt, just behind my right gun, and I remembered picking it up."

"This makes it your nineteenth time," Eddie said, "that fucking number keeps on popping up, but that can't be the only reason things are different this time, can it?"

"Stephen, Mark, and Alison found us this time and made certain we found our way back to where we should have been," Roland said, "it is ka."

The others had expected such a response from him. After all, he was what he was and where he was, just that, no more than that, no more. He had no sense of humor and little imagination, but he was steadfast. He was a gunslinger. And in his heart, well-hidden, he still felt the bitter romance of the quest, even if he now knew that this journey to the top of the tower had not been the first, or the second, or even the tenth.

"You're the one who never changes," Cort had told him once, and in his voice Roland could have sworn he heard fear ... although why Cort should have been afraid of him, a boy, Roland couldn't tell. "It'll be your damnation, boy. You'll wear out a hundred pairs of boots on your walk to hell.

And Vannay, "Those who do not learn from the past are condemned to repeat it."

And his mother, "Roland, must you always be so serious? Can you never rest?"

From that point on, the gunslingers ceased looking into the rooms, as the landing above the well-room contained a miniature of a landscape whose contours and angles were off, wrong in a way that made the eyes and mind hurt.

"Parkus told of the upper levels of the Tower," Stephen said, "it is best not to look. Mayhap he has seen what lies within them, but they are not for such as us to see."

Every nineteen steps the ka-tet came to another level and soon they lost count of how many levels they had passed. The outer wall gradually sloped inward causing the ka-tet to turn nearly sideways as they walked up the seemingly endless spiral of stairs. From behind them came not only the ticking of the clocks in the room below, but the song of the Little Doctors, which seemed to be growing in volume, as if the insects were following their course. Yes, and there was sunlight, commala sunlight inside their eyes and waiting for them. It was hot and harsh upon their skin. But it seemed to be not the light of a single sun, but of two. The sound of the wind was louder, and that sound was also harsh. Unforgiving. as they made their way toward the final door, the voice of the tower spoke again, but this time only Stephen heard it.

"All will not be as it seems. Not all death is death. Ka-tet will not be broken. Beneath the doubled sun lies deception."

Finally, they came to the place where the stairs ended and before them stood one last door, this one firmly shut. It was like, but yet unlike the door Roland had come to at the end of all his other quests for the tower. On it was written not "Roland," but the word in the High Speech "Ka."

The door was, like the one in the Tower's base, composed of black ghostwood, its golden knob sculpted with the shape of a wild rose wound round a revolver. As Roland touched it, the door swung open, revealing, not the Desert, but a chamber that appeared much larger than the space at the top of the tower could permit. This space was, however, contained within the tower, as evidence the grey stone walls that could dimly be seen surrounding it. In the exact center of this vast enclosure was a throne-like chair carved of dull orange rock. On this throne, bound by chains of some glowing metal none of the ka-tet could even attempt to place, let alone recognize, sat a being that had, at some time in the distant past before the world had moved on, taken the form of an old man with an enormous nose, hooked and waxy; red lips that bloomed in the snow of a luxuriant beard; snowy hair that spilled down its back almost all the way to its scrawny bottom. Its pink-flushed face held crimson eyes that seemed to reflect the Todash darkness itself. The robes in which it was clad were of a brilliant red and dotted here and about with lightning strokes and cabalistic symbols. To Susannah, Eddie, Jake, Mark, and Alison he looked like Father Christmas. To Roland and Stephen Deschain he looked like what he was: Hell, incarnate.

Before any of the gunslingers could step through, however, a great wind which came from nowhere and everywhere at once plucked Mark, Alison, and Stephen Deschain the younger from their place on the landing before the door and swept them through together with the swarm of Little Doctors, whose song never wavered. For a moment Roland, Eddie, Susannah, Jake, and Oy saw their ka-mates within the enclosure and then the door slammed shut with a flat, no nonsense bang. From behind it came a shriek of madness, rage, and hatred, a shriek that seemed to be, at first, one of triumph, and then one of cheated fury. A moment later the door opened again and a voice, the voice of the tower itself said, "Come Roland of Gilead. Come Eddie of New York. Come Susannah of New York. Come Jake of New York. Come Oy of Mid-World. The battle awaits. Your enemy is at hand. The king is in his tower, eating bread and honey. The breakers in the basement, making all the money. _Commala-come-come, The battle's now begun! And all the foes of men and rose Rise with the setting sun."_


	2. Chapter 2 Iyana's Tale 1

In multiple worlds held within the web supported by the three remaining beams, the scream of Los reverberated, and in all of them, evil things quaked, sensing a change coming, a change that could spell doom for their master. And those who opposed evil felt it, knew that their cause was not lost.

In one of those worlds, a young woman named Jade Joans clutched her babies to her, knowing that they would be safe, that her future ka was victory. In another world, in a future when, the tide of battle between multiple galactic races turned in favor of the few who opposed evil, opposed a race of beings who had long ago abandoned emotion and physical bodies in favor of technology and forms that were more energy than physical, and who also opposed a mutant insect species whose only aim was carnage and chaos. In yet another when, a small group of people linked hands, sealing a famillial vow, and the scent of roses and a soft echo of the song of the roses surrounding the Dark Tower reached them. They knew that, come what may, they were family, that those following them could not triumph.

In many of those worlds, a woman whose features were more bird-like than human, whose eyes burned with a cold fire, whose evil was hidden beneath the form she had long inhabited, felt a shift in the balance, felt all her plans within an ace of going wrong. She, unlike many other followers of evil, knew the cause, knew that if she didn't act soon, that her grand design would crumble.

"plans must be advanced," she thought, "and soon. In one of the worlds she inhabited, a man clad in silver light armor discharged a futuristic weapon at her and made his escape, carrying a small child. In another, the events she was focussed on went dark for a moment and several beings she had decided upon as prey slipped her grasp.

"Plans must be advanced, and soon."

Mark, Alison, and Stephen felt the wind rising around them, felt it lift them from their feet and pull them through the door. For a moment they saw the Crimson King chained into his throne and then the scene before them shimmered, changed, and solidified.

They looked about and found themselves in a vast circular court flanked by walls of some material they couldn't readily identify. Ahead of them, at some distance, the court gave way to what appeared to be the side of a mountain. Into this was built a structure which seemed to be of great importance, a structure that was topped by a tower of glowing white stone, its spiral of windows reflecting all light that struck them. Unlike the Dark Tower, this tower was topped by what appeared to be a glowing web supporting what could only be a crystal sphere which reminded the gunslingers of an ever-watchful eye. Mark thought he saw a light of a different kind, an azure light, shine out from the highest window of the tower for a moment, and then it was gone.

To the left of where the gunslingers stood, there was a dome of what appeared to be semi transparent crystal. Elsewhere, other buildings stood, giving the impression of a city, one that reminded Mark of something out of the fantasy novels he had loved to read so much in his younger days.

Immediately before the gunslingers was a fountain playing about a silver pool. The pool fed a tree the like of which the three gunslingers had never seen. Its branches were laden with flowers whose shape was almost that of a perfect sphere. Their petals were pure white and of a feathery consistency. Golden light spilled from them and the whole appeared to be more alive than anything encountered in All-World.

Between the tree and the pool stood a small group of beings whose forms were not human, but at the same time not threatening in any way, although there seemed to be several different kinds or subdivisions there represented. Three of them appeared, apart from their golden skin and large multi colored wings, to be a cross between human and some extremely beautiful avian form, the average height of these golden skinned winged ones was six to six and a half feet tall, but their bodies were more slender than any human's. Their wings fluttered every now and again, probably to maintain their balance whilst on the ground. One or two others appeared to be almost human, apart from their skin, which held some of the same golden color, while the others appeared to be smaller, wingless, less tall and slender, Mark guessed the height of these latter to be no more than three to four feet, and of a greenish or greenish brown color, the brownish hew appearing in the smallest of them.

As the gunslingers watched, another of their kind, one who appeared to be either ill or injured in some way and who was seated in a form of transport similar to a wheelchair reached toward the tree and closed its right hand on one of the flowers. After a moment the being slumped forward and appeared to be falling toward the pool, light like that from the flowers spilling from its hand, blood trickling from its mouth.

Mark ran forward and attempted to catch the creature, but a hand restrained him. His hands immediately dipped for his guns, but Stephen's hand fell on his shoulder.

"Hold," he said quietly, "you're in no danger."

"What are they?" Mark asked, looking behind himself at the being who held his left arm, a being who appeared to be shorter in stature than the others, golden in color, whose body was more bird-like than human, whose multi colored wings were half spread as if it would take to the sky at a moment's notice, and whose eyes seemed to hold all the secrets of a thousand universes.

"I've never seen their like before," Stephen replied, "but I have heard of them. They are Mirianas."

"That helps a lot," Mark said, "now could you try telling me something I really need to know, like, for example, where we are, what they are, and what we're doing here."

"I've heard of the Mirianas only in old tales," Stephen answered, "they are one of the oldest, wisest races in existence. No one in In-World, Mid-World, or Out-World knew where they came from, and after the world began to move on their visits ceased. Some believed that they died out, others thought they simply stopped coming to those they formerly instructed. As this is quite clearly not All-World, I can only guess that the tower has sent us to the world of the Mirianas for some purpose."

"What purpose could that be?" Alison asked.

"I know not," answered Stephen.

"Thanks," Mark said, "I'm glad someone knows what's going on around here."

The being who held Mark's left arm turned toward Stephen.

"Well met, gunslinger," it said in the High Speech, its voice was melodious and more bird-like than human.

"Long days, pleasant nights, wise one of Miria," Stephen responded, also using the High Speech.

"And may you have twice the number," the Miriana said, "it's been many years since one of your kind has been seen."

"Ka has sent us here for some purpose," Stephen said, "know you what that purpose might be?"

Before the Miriana could answer Stephen's question, the swarm of Little Doctors, which had up to this point remained behind the three humans, began to move, first marching like ants, then unfurling tiny butterfly-like wings and taking to the air. Their speed was incredible, almost too great for any but a gunslinger to follow. In less than a second they had covered the tree, whose flowers had begun to lose their light and color. In another moment they had covered it completely. Their song which had been silent suddenly was heard clearly. At the same time, the Miriana in the wheelchair-like transport seemed to gain enough strength to avoid what could have been a fatal fall into water the gods alone knew the depth of.

"What just happened?" inquired Alison.

"The Little Doctors sensed approaching death," Stephen answered, "and they seek to prevent it. They are healers above all else."

"The tree?" Alison asked, "is that what they sensed was going to die?"

"Mayhap," Stephen answered, "and mayhap that Miriana in the chair is connected in some way to the tree. We saw her take a flower from it and look you at her now."

"How do you know she's a female?" Mark asked.

"Years ago I had them described to me," Stephen replied, "one of them instructed my old teacher Parkus in many things, including the ability to flip from world to world. Mayhap one of these is Yuon, the wise one who instructed him the most."

"I am Yuon," the Miriana holding Mark's arm said, "you mention Parkus, gunslinger, is he well?"

"He is, Yuon," Stephen answered.

"That is well," the Miriana known as Yuon said, "now as for why you are here."

"I'd like to know that too," Mark said, "one minute we're at the top of the dark tower, then we get swept through the door and finish up here. Now I don't know everything there is to know about the tower, or ka, or other worlds, but I do know that the tower must have had some reason for sending us here instead of letting us destroy the Crimson King or throw him down from the tower or whatever it was Roland intended to do with him."

"He whom you know as the Crimson King can not be killed," Yuon said in English, "and he was imprisoned for a reason."

"Couldn't someone have made sure he couldn't do anything like try to bring down the tower?" Alison asked.

"His power couldn't be taken from him," Yuon answered, "and since only one half of him remains imprisoned in Lillin Andin, leaving his other half free, he can still cause great discord as he has done even here."

Mark intended for a moment to ask just what Yuon had called the place the Crimson king was imprisoned in, but then decided that what she had said was this race's name for the dark tower.

"I cry your pardon for my interruption," he said, now using the High Speech, "tell on."

"You have been brought here for two purposes," Yuon said, "you have already fulfilled one of those purposes by bringing the means of the Tree of Time's healing and that of Iyana."

"The Little Doctors?" Alison asked, "But they're more than just insects. They were once a human being or something closely related to one."

"I know, Alison, ka-daughter of Stephen," Yuon said gently, "Jenna will be given back her vampiric form and she will be the agent of healing for many. She will also be free of the Crimson King's taint."

"Is that possible?" Mark asked.

"It is, "Yuon answered.

"What is the second purpose for which we were sent here?" Stephen asked.

"You will be sent to Earth where you must save the lives of two who are very dear to Iyana and Cianan."

"Who?" Mark asked. In answer, Yuon indicated one of the Mirianas who were now clustered round the one, probably Iyana, in the wheelchair-like transport.

"And after that?" Stephen asked.

"Your diplomatic skill will be needed, gunslinger," replied Yuon, "there is corruption at the heart of our world and one of its victims is our queen."

"My gods," Stephen muttered, "Andelin has gone over to the Red. By the gods this can't be."

"I fear it is, gunslinger," Yuon said, "she has said that Iyana and Cianan failed on Earth and plans to see them dead. Such is against our laws, but she still intends for their deaths to occur."

"What did they fail to do?" Mark asked.

"Earth in the time you are to be sent to has been contaminated by an infection," Yuon explained, "the infection caused mutations in living humans, ending with them becoming walking dead."

"And we're going there?" Mark asked. "Great! That's just what I wanted. A trip to Down Town Zombiesville!"

"Forgive him, Yuon," Stephen said, "sometimes his sarcasm is used to cover his fear. He meant no disrespect."

"I see as much in his mind," Yuon said, "just as I see hatred for Alundar."

"Who?" Alison inquired.

"She means," explained Stephen, "the one we call the Crimson King. He has many names. One of them is Alundar."

"Now that we've got that figured out," Mark said, "how are we getting to Earth?"

"I will send you," Yuon replied.

"When?" Alison asked.

"Once Jenna has been restored," Yuon answered and approached the tree which was still swarming with Little Doctors. Her hands, as they extended toward the Little Doctors, seemed to be covered in a golden light which touched the singing insects.

A small detachment of the Doctors began marching toward the ground. When they reached it, their song suddenly stopped and they began arranging themselves into an approximation of a human shape.

Yuon knelt and lowered her hands till they almost touched the shape the insects made and the light covering them suddenly concentrated itself. In another moment, the light faded and Yuon rose, together with a young woman dressed in white, with a blood-red rose over her left breast.

"She can't live in the sunlight!" cried Alison.

"She is protected," Yuon said reassuringly.

The woman in white, Sister Jenna, moved toward Iyana, but before she had gone more than a couple of steps, Alison removed the wimple baring the Dark Bells and handed it to her. Her hair now covered, save one lock which seemed intent on escaping its confinement, Jenna made her way to Iyana and knelt beside her.

"You have taken grievous hurt," she said, "but you can be healed. As the tree grows stronger, so shall you. Rest now and forget a while your pain and fear."

As she spoke, Jenna shook her head slightly and the dark bells rang softly. At their sound, another small detachment of the Little Doctors left the tree and began making their way toward Iyana.

"Now, gunslingers," Yuon said, handing a small vial to Stephen as she spoke, "the time has come for you to begin the mission for which you were sent here. When you feel the need to return, open what I have given you, Stephen, Son of Stephen Deschain that was, and aid will be at hand."

Yuon gestured and the three gunslingers vanished, after which, she turned to Jenna.

"I know what you need," she said, "and it has been provided."

She led Jenna to what appeared to be a small tent-like construct which had been erected near the fountain. They entered it and Jenna immediately began making a series of complex gestures with her hands, accompanying them with small shakes of her head. As the dark bells rang softly, another small detachment of Little Doctors left the tree. As they entered, the interior of the tent seemed to grow in size and to change, the walls receding to a great distance on either side, the roof appearing to rise, the color changing to a soft whitish hew.

After the transformation of the pavilion was complete, Yuon exited for a moment and returned, carefully pushing the wheelchair-like conveyance carrying the injured Miriana. Jenna moved to aid Yuon in taking Iyana from the chair and placing her in a delicately woven sling composed of some material she couldn't readily identify which was suspended over one of the cots or beds that were arranged along both sidewalls of the pavilion.

After this was done, Jenna moved to the pavilion's entrance.

"You need go nowhere," Yuon said in the language of Miria, "all you need to make this place complete is here."

"How ...?" Jenna began.

"How do you understand our language?" Yuon finished for her," I gave it to you. You need give me nothing in return. It is my gift to you. Few have ever come back from the Red and fewer still have tried."

"I was never given over fully to the Red," Jenna responded, "I was only starting down the path toward it against my will when the desert sun made an end of me."

"You made a choice few have made in that situation," Yuon said softly, "most would have gone down his path gladly with the promise of some reward to come."

"His promises are hollow," Jenna said, "he demands all and gives nothing."

After Yuon departed, Jenna busied herself readying the pavilion. True to Yuon's word, she found several dozen cords of a silk-like material, each holding a string of small silver bells. These she suspended along each sidewall of the pavilion, so that when the wind blew, causing the walls to move and ripple, the sound of the bells would mingle for a moment with the song of the Little Doctors.

Yuon returned after nearly an hour, or whatever the equivalent of one was on Miria, carrying a small silver tray.

"Do you hunger?" she asked.

"I can't," Jenna answered, "I can only take blood and to bleed a Miriana would doom me to damnation."

"Only if it was taken unwillingly," Yuon said, "but this is safe for you."

Jenna doubtfully accepted the tray. On it was a cup filled with a bright golden liquid. She raised it to her lips and took an experimental sip. The drink, whatever it was, was incredibly sweet and she felt strength and energy flooding into her. For several moments she couldn't speak. It had been long and long since she had been able to take anything but the blood of the defenseless patients the other sisters took in and mercilessly killed in their sleep.

"What is it?" she asked in a hushed voice.

"the essence of life distilled into its liquid form," Yuon replied.

After Jenna had drained the cup, she turned her attention to Iyana. Her injuries were quite severe and most of them were internal, but the Doctors were preventing her from becoming worse or dying.

Jenna leaned forward and softly touched Iyana's face.

"Sleep on, Iyana, beloved of Cianan," she said, "sleep on. Grow strong. Let the Doctors do their work. You are close to the edge of death, but you are not there yet and ka willing, you'll heal. Let the death shadow leave you. Let the life return to you. Let yourself feel peace for a while."

After saying this, Jenna softly kissed Iyana's forehead, the errant lock of her hair coming loose from her wimple. Absently, she flicked it back out of sight.

"Always obstinate, that one," she said to herself with a smile.

Iyana's first sensation upon returning to consciousness was that of being inside a cloud.

"Am I flying?" she thought.

All she could see was white beauty. All she could feel was the sensation of floating or flying. She could hear distant music or was it music? She concentrated and realized that it wasn't music, but the song of insects that sounded almost, but not quite, like crickets. Their song was purer, more beautiful than the song of crickets, and accompanying this, the soft ringing of small bells.

She attempted to move, but a small cool hand touched her shoulder.

"Not yet," a voice said softly, "you're not strong enough yet, Iyana, daughter of Alai, beloved of Cianan, Mother of Niamh."

A telepathic sending accompanied the spoken words in the language of Miria and she let herself relax, but her dreams were haunted by visions of the past, the horrors that had culminated in her current situation. Again and again the images played out. Again and again the horrors drew her down to despair.

"This must stop," Jenna thought and shook her head gently.

The Little Doctors on Iyana began to move, some of them clustering more thickly over her injuries, some enveloping her head.

"Sleep," Jenna sent, "sleep Iyana. Sleep a while with no dreams to trouble it."

As Iyana relaxed and the dreams left her, Jenna mused over what she had seen thanks to her mental link with the Little Doctors. Many things, such as the metal carriage the four people, one of whom had been Iyana, only in a different form, had been riding in, were strange to her, but she understood all the events she had seen. She knew not the group known as the Corporation, but she knew their work. Their work brought degeneration, death, caused the world, perhaps many worlds, to move on. She thought of what Yuon had said about Andelin and her corruption.

"Just like before in All-World," she thought, "I sense the hand of Los in this."

In her mind, images raced, part memory, part legend. The kingdom of Eld was founded, partially thanks to the efforts of one called Maerlyn, whom some said was not human.

Great cities, Lud being the chief of them, arose and throve. Great machines toiled endlessly beneath their streets. The guardians of the beams, originally creatures of the Prim, what men called magic, although magic was an extremely generic term for what the Prim actually was, were replaced by the constructs of North Central Positronics. The Sombra Corporation became the driving force in the world, together with North Central Positronics and La Merk Industries. The great machines were given the power to think and speak, but it soon ended. The second child of Arthur Eld murdered his mother and was stripped of his body by Maerlyn. The castle of Eld was ravaged by the confrontation and became known afterwards as Castle Discordia. A great war ravaged the land; fire filled the night sky, the color of blood, the color of death. Darkness reigned for a century, the survivors caught outside mutated, moved under ground, vanished from sight and memory. Light returned, Gilead rose, bringing with it the line of the gunslingers, descendents of the Eld himself. Enemies arose and were defeated, then came John Farson, The Good Man. Gilead fell, the sisters, all but Jenna's Mother, Sofia, gone over to the Red. Jenna, only a child at the time, fell ill soon after her Mother's flight and was forced to return. Then had come the death of her Mother, her slavery, the murder of innocents in which she had participated, the start down the Red path. After what seemed like an eternity, Roland of Gilead, the last gunslinger, or so she had thought at the time, had come, reminding her of her former calling, that of a healer, and she had saved his life, but the sun had come and she had reverted to her form of the Little Doctors. In that form she had remained trapped for what seemed like forever, until the ringing of the Dark Bells in Can'-Ka No Rey had awakened her soul from its long sleep and Yuon had restored her body.

She pulled back from memory and once again turned her attention to Iyana. She noticed immediately that her patient seemed stronger and was once more on the verge of awakening. This time she allowed it. The Doctors had done their work and Iyana's body was healing, growing stronger, although before another day passed, she would once again be wrapped in the blackness of coma.

Iyana awoke to the sound of singing insects. She attempted to move, but found herself in some sort of sling which swung and rocked gently with her movements.

"No, not yet, Iyana," said a soft voice, "save your strength."

"Who are you?" Iyana asked, opening her eyes and seeing a woman dressed in a white gown sitting beside her, holding her left hand. The woman wore a wimple which concealed her hair; said wimple was fringed with bells that looked grayish, as if their color had faded. Over the woman's heart was the symbol of a red rose.

"I am Sister Jenna," the woman responded, "you were near to death, but the Doctors have arrested the process."

"Where am I?" Iyana inquired, "am I dead?"

"No," Jenna said with a smile, "you're still in Ithelian."

"There's no place like this in Ithelian," Iyana said.

"This is a new place," responded Jenna, "it is a place of healing. The others used to call it Hospital, but now that it is here on Miria, Yuon has named it anew, Mihrél Elaehnin Lehña, the Place of Healing Bells."

"The others?" Iyana asked.

"That is a story for another time," Jenna replied, "Mayhap when you are healed completely you'll hear all."

"I can't be healed completely," Iyana said, "I'm infected with a Fae-made virus."

"Well do I know," Jenna said sadly, "but the Doctors are keeping the infection back as best they can. I must regularly prevent them from attempting to remove it, for they take such things into their own being and such as that would destroy them and their magic."

"Who are the Doctors?" Iyana asked.

"I'll show you," Jenna said softly and shook her head. The dark bells rang softly and a procession of the Little Doctors came into sight from beneath an unoccupied bed. Their song grew as they approached Iyana. Jenna shook her head again and the insects, each one twice the size of an ant, pure black, but beautiful, began to ascend one of the legs of Iyana's bed.

"More are needed," Jenna explained, "your strength is growing, but there are still so many hurts to heal in you."

"Does it hurt them?" Iyana asked with concern.

"Not at all," Jenna answered, "to heal is their joy. To take the hurts of others is their happiness. That is why they sing."

"It's so soothing," Iyana said.

It is, is it not?" Jenna said.

"Yes, Iyana replied.

"I saw much from your mind," Jenna said, "but I understand little. Will you, I beg, tell me what it all means?"

Iyana thought for a moment, her left hand never leaving Jenna's. She thought of how to begin, but didn't know quite how.

"Sometimes," Jenna said softly, "it is best to simply begin and allow the tale to take you where it will."

"I need it. Desperately," Iyana said at length. Throughout the course of her tale, she unconsciously returned to the times she told of, her tenses changing at such times. Her mind opened, telepathically transmitting images to Jenna so the healer could see the events unfolding before her.

"You can't understand, not possibly, not unless you've been in your life where I am forced to be now.

Drastic times call for very drastic measures.

And this is a drastic time.

I am like a bird that must stay in the air on one wing. But I am the bird who is hell-bent on doing so, no matter the odds.

My name is Iyana. It means "hope," in my language.

I'll need as much of that as I can get. At least, I will now.

The thing I fear the most and love the most can't help me here. I wonder if this is an unforeseen side-effect brought on by it, anyway. I wouldn't be surprised, the thing doing what it does. It eliminates the weak, awakens things that we wish we never had experienced in our lives...

I don't listen to them anymore. What can they know? They couldn't save me... so will the drastic measure kill me or save me? They say it's fifty-fifty.

I said, "I'd like to live, thank you."

They only looked at each other, that look that says they know something but they won't tell you. That look infuriates me! I may not be able to see it, but the silence is so full of unsaid things I'm surprised they don't fall out and smash me in the face. Another thing to leave its disfiguring mark... not to mention the infection, and on top of it, this.

I should be nearly indestructible. My immune system should be impossible to break.

Well, we've just proven that the immune system bit isn't true, haven't we?

I need it. More desperately than you think I do.

I need an antidote that doesn't exist, or didn't exist before, combined with the first infection, they battle, mutate each other or something, and tear me apart, all of which they will do while I am still alive and conscious.

Sounds pretty painful, doesn't it? Even my pain tolerance isn't that good, and I can get more-than-just-minor gunshot wounds and stay on my feet.

I know I can. I've done it before. Don't ask. There's an example of "drastic times call for drastic measures" again.

Part of it's my own natural resilience. Part of it is the fact that I'm so stubborn that you could set an army up against me and I won't fall. I'll stay standing, in tatters maybe, but standing.

The infection and my natural power made me a force to be reckoned with. Something to be feared.

And as they shared that look, something twisted inside. Well, there were things doing more than twisting, they were probably this close to bursting in the worst way as those two shared that damned look that told me they thought I was going to die, but something else did. Something in that cold, icy part of a person's soul, the bit that doesn't need infection to enhance.

It's also the part of it that no one can touch, and the part that you wish you never had to wake up. It's exhilarating when you let the full power of that coldness loose, but more often than not, you regret it.

I said, "With all your damned infections and antidotes, can't you do something other than leave me ... defenseless?" I've become quite paranoid after they've tried to kill me three times. But hey. I'm still alive. Frankly, I don't trust them either. If they're traitors, they'll take full advantage of their power, and there will be ... accidental ... complications.

It is a very, very cold world, you know.

The thought that they thought I was going to die didn't frighten me. They've told me that a few times before, not to mention that I've nearly done it more than a few times.

I sighed, and immediately regretted it. I said, "How do you know it's not brought on by the infection?"

"Well ..." one of them said. Janes, pronounced Janice. I liked Janes least of all, let alone trusted her. I'd always had a bad feeling about Janes.

"That would be complicated," said the other. He was Daniel, and he was the mind behind all of this, the initial infection, that is.

"It means that the infection would have to be weakening your defenses," said Daniel, "not strengthening them. But even the strongest fall down sometimes. ... Or it's deliberately eliminating things. It's got plans. It thinks."

"Daniel ... it's an infection. It can't think," said Janes.

"Oh, you'd be surprised. This one was designed to be more than a superbug, far, far more than that. This one may simply be testing you ... or eliminating things for its own mutations ... or both."

"Great, guys."

"Thing is, either way, we have to take drastic measures."

I swear he'd read my mind.

"But wouldn't it keep me alive?"

"Oh, yes it would. But being alive like that would be hell."

"It is already, how much worse could it get?" I muttered.

The voices were distorted. My mind couldn't catch them. It was as though I were lifting mental hands through something thick and unyielding, as though my mind had to make a huge effort, leaving me physically weaker, to focus, to understand.

I fought to rise out of the heaviness. There was something constricting my breathing, and it had a harsh, chemical taste. There was something obstructing my mind, as well. I pushed against it, to no avail. I couldn't get out. I couldn't breathe.

Then the scene before shimmered, changed, became a darkened vista lit by autumn stars and a moon that was just approaching the full. A car approached, its headlights cutting great circles through the darkness. I sensed a mind within the vehicle, the mind of a man intent on pulling a job. He was approaching a small filling station and I knew that he intended not only to rob the place, but to kill as well. I also knew something else. This hadn't happened yet, but it would, and soon.

I attempted to read the mind thus exposed to me. It belonged to a young man named Kyle. Then I was inside his head, seeing what he was seeing, experiencing what he was experiencing.

Kyle sat motionless inside his beat up Chevy pickup, silently prepping himself for the mission ahead. He was in the parking lot of an aged Exxon station. Other than himself the parking lot was empty, and he could see that the road was barren for miles.

He opened the car door, and slid out. He walked, stone-faced towards the doors, gently cradling the gun he had tucked away, hidden inside his jacket pocket. The door to the Exxon opened with a cheerful jingling of three or four bells secured to the handle on the opposite side. He hated those things, especially when he was trying to pull a job, made too much noise. "Somethin' I can do ya fer?" the old man behind the counter asked politely. He had to be at least in his sixties, his hair, what remained of it, was snowy white, with just a tinge of grey on the sides. The man's face was pale and saggy; his cheeks were like those of a chipmunk, drooping and large. "You out kinda late, ain't cha? Must be goin' on, what, damn near midnight ain't it?" "Look old man, shut the hell up, or I'll blow your freaking head off!" Kyle screamed harshly, his voice going a bit hoarse toward the end. The old man, Ted, according to the name tag pinned to his shirt, tossed his hands absent mindedly into the air. "Now look young feller, why don't you put down the gun, before you do something you gonna regret." "Why don't you reach into that cash register, and hand over whatever you got," he paused, thinking carefully over his words, he immediately turned his voice into a cheerful, friendly sounding tone, "Look, I don't want to kill you, please don't make me, just give me the money and I'll leave. Then you'll have a nice story to tell your grandkids, how Pappie foiled the mean old robber." "Ain't got no grandchildren, son, my only boy died a cancer, probly six, seven years ago," Ted said, as if he and Kyle were old friends catching up over brunch. "Look, old timer, please don't make me. Please don't. Don't make me." "I ain't gonna make you do anything young feller, you got to make the call yeself." Kyle pulled the trigger, and he pulled it again, and he pulled it again. Ted hopped backwards, and fell to the floor, fell like a large chunk of raw hamburger, hitting the ground with a nauseating thump. Kyle hopped the counter, and stepped over Ted's body, not even daring to look down, not daring out of the shear terror that Ted was still looking at him, his dead eyes locked on him. As he began to pull the stacks of bills from the register he took notice for the first time of a tiny television sitting on the left side of the counter. A fat man was on it, he was obviously a news anchor, but what was the news doing on well past midnight? The fat man was sweating heavily; his tie was loose, and just barely dangling from his rolling neck. "Please remain calm, do not attempt to reach previously cited rescue stations, they may no longer be in operation," he paused for a second as a hand reached in from off-screen, the hand holding a piece of paper. The fat man looked at it for a moment, inhaled deeply, and began to read, "We have received word that this station and its nationwide counterparts will be going off the air, the government has initiated the Emergency Broadcast System. Please stay tuned and up-to-date information will be brought to you." The fat man looked into the camera, his eyes locked on Kyle's, and a wave of pity passed over them, and the transmission ended. The screen snowed out and became fuzzy. The fuzz lasted for only five or six seconds, and then it was replaced by a blank screen, and white writing began to scroll over it. Whatever the government had to say, it could wait, Kyle had to get out of here, and quick. Kyle turned to leave. He turned, and he saw Ted standing there, blood still running from the three bullet holes in his chest. Ted's mouth flexed hungrily.

Hours may have passed in what felt like the space of seconds, I didn't know. For a moment, I didn't know where I was, I didn't know what was happening. I flashed back suddenly, to the frightened mind of a little girl, a little girl frightened of monsters beneath the bed, and I had just seen one, hadn't I? A dead man returning to life, and what had the news on the TV meant?

"No!"

I don't know if I thought it or screamed it, but suddenly there was someone above me.

"Daniel!" It was Janes. "Come here!"

There were more voices, more presences around me. I tried to move, but I was too weak.

When I wake up weak and unable to breathe, it automatically brings back bad memories. This time was the worst, because it was so like that time in so many eerie similarities.

I forced my eyes open. It was too bright! I shut them quickly.

I made one last effort to push through the thickness,

And then I realized what was wrong.

Well, I couldn't move for a reason. I may have broken something.

I stopped fighting as the darkness descended back over me.

I woke up slowly. For a moment, I had no idea where I was. I was a child again, ten years old, in the year 2003. For a moment, there was no sound, and I believed, for a moment, that I really was then and there, and only realizing how dead I had been for months.

When one is locked away, no matter for what reason, one's life drains. For some it is slow, but others wilt like flowers, becoming wasted wraiths.

"She's awake," someone said quietly. It might have been Daniel. I was still struggling to fast-forward from 2003 to the present and piece things together, but with my mind still full of fuzz it was proving more difficult than I expected.

I spoke slowly, so as not to make a fool of myself. "What happened?"

"You're alive."

"You poked around while you had the chance, didn't you?"

Silence. I took that to mean yes.

I sighed. "Can't even shut my eyes without someone taking advantage of it."

"Well ... the mutation is intriguing," Daniel said, not bothering to deny the truth of what I'd accused him of.

"It's killing things to make space for its own mutations," said Janes.

"It doesn't understand life or death," said Daniel. "It has a will to survive and rids itself of the unnecessary, no matter the cost of its host. I designed it, I should know. It believes that if the host dies, it only means the host body wasn't strong enough, and so it is weeding out the weak. It will progress to a stronger host body. And since humans are so amazingly adaptable, eventually they will, in a way, mutate without the infection. An old assistant of mine thought so too, before he went rogue. In fact, it was John who first advanced the theory that the infection was able to think. If only he hadn't decided to turn against us. He was extremely brilliant."

It was chilling to listen to him say these things with such clinical detachment.

Daniel and Janes wanted to create a super-race. I'd known that already, but who was this third, this John? Neither Daniel nor Janes had ever mentioned him before and I thought I detected Hate in Janes at the very mention of the name.

"But there is a catch. If it is not carefully, carefully controlled ..."

I didn't like where this was going.

"It goes mad. It destroys all that stands before it. That is why we created you... you are an antidote."

I gasped. "I had it before."

"A test infection... a mutation on a known virus, a somewhat uncommon one, slow and insidious, but not quite as slow as some. It would take you five or six months to die if you were weak, which you were not."

That's why it couldn't be diagnosed. It was frighteningly similar to several near-incurable diseases, but it really was a mutant infection, a super-bug that couldn't be stopped except by the will of the individual.

Unless, of course, you start taking those afore-mentioned drastic measures, which are as likely to kill you as the infection in question.

I smiled grimly. I had the will. That much had been made clear thirteen years ago.

"You mean, you did it?" The fog was clearing from my mind.

"Yes," said Daniel.

He had no fucking remorse! I wanted to hit him in the face! I tried to sit up, but Daniel pushed me back.

"Not yet."

"You don't care!" I said, biting each word off and throwing them at him like verbal knives. "You could have cost me my life and couldn't give a shit about the fact that for every minute of those months I lived in fear ... of what I would leave behind." I wanted to kill him! But, even with my enhanced body, I was still too weak and uncoordinated to do him any damage. Blindness wasn't a problem; I was so sensitive that I didn't need sight. But that didn't keep me from picturing my victory and escape from the bowels of the old x'Raen Hive they'd made into their secret facility.

But I'd have to do it after they made sure there was no risk of secondary infections or complications. Escape was hopeless at this point.

"Iyana," said Daniel, "as much as I may seem a heartless bastard, I am not."

"Really! That's something new!"

"Really, Iyana."

When I think about it now, I wonder if maybe he knew where this was going, but he knew also that he was too far in and couldn't go back. He'd do well in a sidhe court.

I let them lay me back down and bring me nasty cardboard food (God, for a multibillion-dollar secret facility, they have shitty food!). They won't let me call out anymore, at least, not till I'm on my own, they say.

On my own, ha ha, on my own with them watching me at every turn is what I'll be.

I sighed. I'd been beaten and bruised, hurt and locked away for shame of what I was, all my life.

I'm not normal.

I know, that's obvious. But I wasn't even normal then, before they took me.

When I was seven years old, the power awakened inside of me. At such a young age, I could not control it.

It partitioned a part of my soul, the part that became associated with my past, named Jennifer.

I became Iyana then, my true name I told only to few. I was Iyana. I was hope.

At age ten, the infection hit me. I had been aware of my mortality before then; my situation was terrible at times and my poor father couldn't be trusted to drive anywhere. We would make someone go with him out of fear for him whenever he went somewhere.

But somehow, I had lived in a world where, despite hunger and other things, I had been unaware of the slower, more insidious ways to go.

Dying frightened me. Not death. Death was simply an unknown that I couldn't comprehend. I never thought: I'm going to be dead. Death could come tomorrow, or three months from now. I thought: I'm dying. My mind just couldn't comprehend death, to the point where never once did I think about death.

No, I thought: I'm dying.

Dying, the process of it and how it had come to me, was terrifying. I was not really afraid of my own pain; I could deal with that, or rather, what people would see in my eyes. Would I scare them? Would I frighten those I loved away, in my time of dying? All I know was that I had to pretend. No matter how much pain I was in, I forced a smile, a pretty fake smile, so they wouldn't think anything of it.

I'm sure I did very well; the infection was completely dismissed, due to the fact that it was not any of the infections it in some way or other resembled.

But I wasn't normal.

And I wasn't normal because I pulled through, with no help, no drugs, no drastic measures, not then, anyway, but alone. Not even normal medicine, like you would take for common, ordinary things.

I survived. I did something that, until then, was deemed impossible.

I had terrible dreams, flashbacks and such, throughout the summer and part of the autumn of 2004. Those nightmares still haunt me today, maybe only because they were dreams. Those near-death experiences, which if they continue at this rate I won't be able to count them on my fingers in a matter of months anymore, don't haunt me because of how real they were. They simply were. They happened, I survived, time marches on. That's how it went.

But the dreams ... they haunt me pretty bad. Every once in a while I'll have one of those nightmares again and wake up in a cold sweat, tangled in the blankets, a strangled scream on my lips, tasting like bitter flashbacks, voices still echoing in my head, "The world is dead, the worlds., The Tower is falling, a trillion universes are merging, and all is Discordia, all is ruin, all is ended. And all shall be Discordia, and all shall fade and die, and inward do the shadows creep across the land and sky." Then I have to remember where I am. And to know that I am in a safe place somehow isn't consoling, considering my situation.

I grew aware of the true meaning of that power at age thirteen, and only pieced the strangeness of the events together at age fifteen.

At fourteen and a half, I fell in love. I'd known lust before, but not love.

I loved Simon. But I couldn't have him, so I shut the feelings away. Eventually, I realized again that I loved him. This time, there was nothing in our way, but during the summer of 2008, we were both nearly killed in a small Maine town by something that had taken the form of a dog, and it was then that I discovered that Simon had power as well. Thanks to that, we survived, and saved the lives of a young couple we'd met in town, a couple I could sense something about, something that reminded me of... I wasn't sure at the time.

At age nineteen, I was accidentally pregnant with my first, and only, child... a baby girl. We named her Niamh, an old Celtic name.

And then when I was twenty, and the baby was only six months old, they took me away.

So it's September of 2016, and I haven't spoken to Simon for three years. My own daughter won't recognize me. I only hope they're okay. Daniel won't let anyone talk to me. He's just paranoid, I think sometimes. If I were head of such a possibly catastrophic project, I'd be so paranoid it would drive me to insanity.

I miss Simon and Niamh so much sometimes it's physically painful. I want to hold my baby again, rock her and dry her tears. Whenever I'm with Simon, my nightmares almost completely go away, though the rare one I have now and then is more intense than before.

This is exactly how I never, ever wanted it to be. I never wanted to tear my family apart. I was so paranoid about it for a time. And it seems like now that it actually happened, that's the worst thing about this whole mess. Not the pain, not the drugs, the experimentation, not the heartless coldness of Daniel and Janes. It's missing them that hurts the most.

I had to disappear. I hope they understand. I had to. There was no way I could even tell Simon why. Sometimes I dream of him and wake up reaching for what isn't there.

I wish I could have told him. Then, instead of him one day telling Niamh, "Oh, your mother just walked away one day ..." he would say, "They took her away. She'll come back one day." And Niamh, instead of becoming hopeless of my return and resentful that I, who gave her life, who helped to bring her into this world, simply abandoned her, she would look for me.

They won't look for me. It's been three years. Simon has probably moved on. Niamh is in blissful ignorance of her mother's torment.

Maybe that's the best way for it to be, I try to console myself sometimes. If they knew the truth, it might hurt them more than the lie.

Maybe, if and when I ever get out of here, I shouldn't go back to Canada to look for them. Maybe I should go back to Alaska and live in some beautiful, quiet place. Then Niamh could grow up blissfully unaware of what I was, and Simon wouldn't have the burden of being unable to tell her.

I looked up at some point to see Daniel standing over me.

"You miss him, don't you?"

"Like you care," I gritted out harshly.

"You don't know how much I care."

"Fuck you!"

The insult didn't faze him; it just made him look more sorry for me, lying here in my pitiful state. I annoyed myself. My weakness was annoying. Everything about it was annoying!

"Don't look at me like you feel sorry for me," I said.

"In a few days, we can let you go."

"Let me go where? Back to my rooms, two floors down? Ha ha. That's not letting me go. Letting me go would be letting me go back to..." I stopped. They didn't know just how powerful Simon was ... and how powerful Niamh could become. Niamh could become a force that the Corporation itself would give ground against, one girl alone, with so very much potential. I had to keep my family from these heartless bastards.

"Simon and Niamh, you mean."

I sat bolt upright, ignoring the pain it caused. "How did you find that out?"

"I know a lot more than I tell them, Iyana."

He could know my name, I thought. He probably does. Shit.

"If you know that my daughter's name is Niamh, not Lilly ... then you know a lot more than I can let you know."

Daniel didn't look afraid. He just stood there, tall and almost skeletal and completely unreadable. Daniel must have been six foot six and only a hundred and fifty pounds. His face appeared to be carved out of something pale, flawless, and smooth, his eyes keen, piercing, grey lances. He wore his black hair long and held back like a sidhe royal's. He looked strangely distant, those eyes deep wells of memory ... and pain. The thought that there was a heart under the unreadable face was comforting, more than anything else here.

"You can't kill me," he said.

"Oh, really?" I said. "Try me."

"In your weakened state, I could kill you at hand-to-hand."

"If I were in my normal state ..."

"I could still kill you!" Something almost hungry passed fleetingly through his eyes.

I knew that look.

I knew what it felt like, too.

He was infected, like me.

He leaned closer to me. "I could kill Simon and Niamh, too. I know where they are. They've gone to Alaska to stay with your cousin."

They were in good hands. Ashlee wouldn't let Daniel kill my baby. And Niamh had a friend in Taylor, Ashlee's daughter, who would by now be four years old.

"I have a picture of them." Before I could shut my eyes, he'd keyed something up. There was a holo in front of me. Simon was holding Niamh, shortly after I'd left. Niamh had probably only been eight months old. Then there was Simon and Ashlee. Little Niamh was standing beside Taylor, grinning happily and holding hands with her distant cousin, laughing at something Ashlee said.

Then there was Simon, sitting alone with Niamh and Taylor, talking to them. This time, it was a video, and Daniel turned the audio on.

"... just disappeared one day. I don't know where she is."

It felt like someone had stabbed me with a flaming hot knife.

Niamh looked so tiny, so lovely. She was all dark and shining, with long, rich black hair, but her eyes! They were a pure, rich color, like burnished gold, and they had no whites. She was like a tiny dark princess with the sun captive in her eyes.

Neither of us knew where she got her beauty from. I certainly don't look like that. I'm five-six. I've lost the baby weight, and I'm now slender and fit. My skin is so pale that I might as well be glowing. I wear my deep red hair down to my waist and have multicolored eyes. The hair's called Unseelie red, and it's so dark and rich it's like spun rubies. I guess I am attractive, not pretty exactly, but attractive, because I also have a nice figure, but that's it. Her looks didn't, as far as we know, come from any of her surviving family, except, maybe, for Tatyana. I'm white as snow. Niamh is the opposite.

"Turn it off!" I cried.

"The infection's loose in Rainbow Falls, Iyana," said Daniel as he gestured and the holo flickered and vanished.

"You've been spying on them!" I said.

"No, not really. Did you hear me?"

It sank in. Rainbow Falls. Rainbow Falls, Alaska, where I'd planned to live. Simon and I had been saving every penny for the dream of that beautiful mountain village. It was where I'd found my real mother, Tatyana. Tatyana would have taken them in, but neither had the money. My dog, Lola, my cat, Shadow, my family, and their belongings would take a lot of money to move, due to the skyrocketing oil prices. They were still trying to find alternative energy sources sufficient enough for the demands that would be placed on them.

The infection would ravage Rainbow Falls first, and my poor mother, Tatyana would be dead. Though she had borne six children and was over forty, she was still a slim, delicate, dark beauty.

"We will send you back to Anchorage."

"I don't want to see that woman again!"

"Take Simon, Niamh, Ashlee, and Taylor to Canada. Simon has family there, doesn't he?"

"Yes," I said. "But I don't know..."

"Do not go to Rainbow Falls. We have the infection contained there. It shouldn't be able to get out. If we have to, we'll nuke the town."

"Nuking the town won't kill the infection and you damn well know it. You crack a few of those vials; you nuke the city, that shit in the air goes straight into the jetstream. What do you get? The apocalypse. Armageddon. Extinction."

"It'll blow the zombies to dust."

I sighed. "No use arguing with you. We'll have that discussion later. When am I leaving?"

"In a week's time."

After Daniel left, I sat a long time, thinking. I could only imagine what would soon be going on in the world, the chaos, the death, the people, some of them unwilling to leave their homes, although said homes would be besieged by the walking dead. As my physical eyes, blind though they were, closed, a picture formed in my mind, a picture of a young man in a zombie infested city, a young man accompanied by others who would soon be gone.

I had seen things all my life, not only in dreams, but in waking as well. Sometimes they came true, sometimes not, but more often than not, my visions or whatever they were were accurate to a fault. I reached for a name to put with the man I saw.

"Brian. His name is Brian."

From the balcony of the seventh floor, Brian gazed out upon the desolate city. Nothing moved. Everything was silent, sterile. He felt for a fleeting second like the world was his home, like all this was his little play world.

Until he heard the soft, but telltale moan from far below. Another of the infected people shambled down the street, bumping into the carcasses of cars and debris.

Brian raised his rifle, putting the scope to his eye. He traced back to where he had spotted the stalking figure. He found it again and pinched off a resounding shot. He scored a hit. The zombie's head exploded in a puff of red.

Nodding, briefly admiring his work, Brian decided to take a break and marched back inside the apartment. Bobby was sitting in a corner, surrounded by ammunition and dissected barrels of his miscellany of guns. Hilary sat in the corner adjacent to Bobby, picking lint from the floor. Greg stood propped up against the empty doorway that led into the bedroom, smoking a cigarette. All of them were around Brian's age. Sixteen to seventeen years of age.

"You got one," Greg said, the bags under his eyes signifying his insomnia. No one had been able to sleep much after the virus had broken out. Something had caused these people to go mad, to eat, to feed on their own family or neighbors. And now, a group of teens were trapped in an apartment on the seventh floor of a building in a zombie-infested city.

Brian nodded. "Yeah." "How many's that today?" Bobby inquired from the corner, fitting a clip expertly into an M-16.

Brian shrugged. "Two, maybe three. Dunno." He looked down at his feet, knowing everyone else in the room was feeling the same as he. This was the end. The end of everything. Right now, planes might be flying and the rest of the world was continuing as normal, but not for long. The epidemic had gotten to the extreme, done too much damage already. Los Angeles was dead, and with it, the rest of California would fall, too. "How're the supplies?" he said.

Greg motioned to the kitchen, a doorway next to the only bedroom of the apartment. "Check in there," he said, his same lifeless expression on his face.

Brian nodded. He knew what to expect. Walking slowly, he entered the kitchen. Pots with chunks of food plastered to them still sat on the stove, attracting mold and flies. The floors still had a few bloodstains from treatments from the other teen that they had brought along. He had been infected. They had killed him and tossed his body over the balcony three days ago, seconds after the infection completely took him.

Brian reached the refrigerator and stood there, looking dumbly at it, hesitant to open it. Finally, mustering his nerves, he gripped the handle and swung the door idly open. What remained of their rations were a six pack of Dr. Pepper, a loaf of stale sourdough bread, and some cheese that surprisingly hadn't started to mold yet. He then checked the pantry. There was an unopened bag of Doritos, a pack of poptarts, and four cans of Campbell's soup.

That was it. Sighing, Brian exited the kitchen sullenly. He faced Greg. Brian said, "There's not much left. It won't last. I don't know how long we plan to stay here, but the rations that we have will only provide a week's worth of sustenance. We need to move." Greg looked at him blankly, took a long pull from his cigarette and said, "I'm almost out." Brian didn't say anything. It was typical for Greg to say things off-topic when he was uncomfortable.

Brian turned to Bobby and Hilary. Bobby got up and smacked the clip into his M-16. "I don't see why the fuck not." He looked at Brian with all-honesty. "We've been here way too long and haven't killed enough of those ass-rammers. I think it's time to make a move." Brian nodded and turned to Hilary. She, too, got up. She stared at Brian for a few seconds with the same empty look in her eyes, the look of despair. She just nodded. "It only seems right," she said and turned away to hide her tears. The epidemic had really gotten to Hilary. Brian knew that the others were equally affected by the outbreak as Hilary, but she didn't have the nerves to endure it. Brian briefly contemplated whether they should just kill her and set her free of this misery. Then he pushed the thought away. Hilary was strong. And he knew that her time to shine would soon come.

Brian looked to the floor then. "S." he began, but found no words.

"We're gonna leave," said Greg. He scrunched the butt of his cigarette on the wall and shot his gaze towards Bobby. "Hand me one uh those bitches." Bobby smiled and went back to the corner and came back with a fully loaded Desert Eagle. He slapped it in Greg's hand. Then, reaching to his back pocket, he retrieved an extra clip. Greg took that as well. Bobby and his family had hunted a lot, and his father had been obsessed with guns-he had even owned an illegal gun-shop somewhere near South Central. Just after the epidemic had broken out, Bobby had raided the gun-shop using his father's key and taken anything he could.

Brian nodded, a small line of a smile that didn't reach his eyes imprinted on his boyish features. "I'll get the supplies." Brian went back to the kitchen and retrieved his Jan Sport backpack from the counter. In it he placed all the food that they had. It all surprisingly fit well. And then, in a larger pocket of the backpack, he placed their med kit. While he was doing this, he wondered what they should expect once they exited the building. Zombies, to be sure. But what about survivors? Were they-Brian, Greg, Bobby, and Hilary-the only survivors in Los Angeles? Well, if we are, he thought, we're in for a shit load of action.

When all was done and prepared, each of the survivors exchanged long stares with each other. Brian had the backpack with all their supplies slung over both shoulders. It didn't really matter if it slowed him down; because they would all die sooner or later. He also had a Desert Eagle implanted in its holster strapped around his right thigh.

Hilary had the least of the load. She had a machete shoved between her belt and her pants and a Desert Eagle in hand. When Bobby had insisted on giving her a holster, she had refused, only saying that it was much better to have a gun in hand than a gun uselessly at her side. She had an extra two clips shoved into each of her back pockets.

Greg had a dagger shoved into his boot and a revolver in hand. He also had two extra clips for his gun in his back pockets. And as an extra, he had a Desert Eagle set in its holster at his right thigh and an extra magazine for it set in another holster on his left thigh.

Bobby was the most equipped. In his hands sat confidently was his recently oiled M-16 and he had two lines of bullets crisscrossing across his chest. He had a revolver stuffed into the groin of his pants and naked bullets jingling in his left pocket. On his left thigh was yet another Desert Eagle with an unused clip stuffed into his other pocket. In his right boot was a jackknife. "Let's go," he said and they were off.

The troupe exited the apartment building. It had taken them a while to leave because the elevators were down due to the absence of electricity and they had to descend down the seven flights of stairs. They had only encountered three zombies and were surprised by the fact that the moaning fuckers hadn't come knocking on their door before.

Bobby led the party gallantly, standing up straight and waving his gun nonchalantly, an arrogant grin on his face. To him, this was all in good fun.

Brian, though, thought differently of the situation. He was scared. Scared beyond his wildest dreams. He didn't want to fight zombies. The only good way to kill a zombie was from the seventh floor of an abandoned apartment building was his philosophy. And he had good right to be scared. He, like the others, of course, had seen Dawn of the Dead.

Hilary was scared, too. She was on the verge of panic. The others knew that she was close to insanity and would not restrain her if she decided to abandon them in a frenzy of laughs of mad-enforced mirth. But she was not insane yet, and she was trying her hardest to keep her cool. And so, she lifted her Desert Eagle and scanned their surroundings.

Greg was about as nonchalant as Bobby, though he managed to keep the stupid grin from creeping up on his face. He liked this scenario. He had nothing to lose. Absolutely nothing. So, he kept his cool, his revolver in his hand, but lowered to his side. He lit another cig. "Hmmm, last one," he informed the others and managed to squeeze out the last of the fluid in his lighter. He tossed the empty canister to the side. "Boy, I better fucking enjoy this." Brian smiled at this. Greg was the same. Even during an apocalypse. Sometimes, people just never changed.

Around them were dead bodies of the zombies that Brian had taken out. Smoldering carcasses of cars were littered haphazardly everywhere and discarded miscellany flew in the desolate wind. The buildings were vacant and the streets were hard to get across considering the abandoned cars and buses. To their left, an overturned train lay against a collapsed wall of a warehouse.

Eerily, they all sighed in unison.

They marched.

They had been walking for seven minutes down Main Street before a zombie shambled out in front of them. Bobby put his hand up. "This one's mine." He shot the M-16 from the hip. An array of bullets catapulted through the air and slapped wetly into the approaching zombie. Gore and intestines leaked from the holes in its body and smoke rose through the air. The rotting creature collapsed to the ground.

The survivors cautiously advanced towards the still body. Bobby reached it and kicked its shoulder. Suddenly, the beast's head jerked up and he sputtered blood in a terrorizing growl. The zombie shot its hand at Bobby's leg and gripped it hard. Bobby lost his cool and yelped in terror.

Greg raised his revolver and shot. Half of the ghoul's head blew off, shards of skull and slabs of flesh and brains washing over the concrete street. The hand fell limp from Bobby's shin. Greg looked at Bobby haughtily. "Dumbshit." Brian chuckled. Bobby turned around and glared at him. Brian immediately shut his mouth. Bobby raised his head, scrutinizing Brian and nodded threateningly. "Yeah." Then, more moans reverberated down the street.

The survivors looked up in terror. A horde of undead, rotting bodies of putrid, gory flesh marched down the street towards their destination. The survivors.

Bobby's jaw dropped and he raised his M-16 instinctively. He shot randomly at the frontlines of the ghouls. A few fell, but the majority of them kept their pace. Then, all the survivors were shooting at the advancing undead, clouds of smoke rising from their rapidly firing weapons.

Soon, the zombies were only ten yards away. Hilary snapped. Screaming maniacally, she ran forward, throwing herself before the lines of the dead.

The ghouls poured onto her.

Brian screamed. "Jesus Christ!" He raised his Desert Eagle and shot more, taking down only a few.

Then the dead were upon them.

Greg managed to behead one as it lunged for him, splashing brains all over the street and the zombies behind it. Bobby waved his M-16 to and fro, never loosening his grip on the trigger. Three rows of undead fell before him.

That was until a zombie from his left flank shot down at him with amazing speed compared to the norm of its kind. Screaming, and still shooting wildly, he fell to the ground. The zombie was atop him. Moaning, it tore a hole into his stomach with its claws and bit a chunk of flesh from his arm. "Kill it! Kill the motherfucker!" he screamed, sheer terror and pain evident in his shrill voice.

Brian shot at the zombie, but only scored two hits out of his three. One smacked wetly into the ghoul's stomach and another hit its clawing arm. The other hit Bobby in the leg. Bobby screamed in terror-such terror that it struck a nerve in Brian, caused him to lower his weapon, to gawk at the scene that had opened up before him. Soon, Bobby's obscenities and curses were lost under the tumult of moans as the undead piled onto him, tearing him limb from limb and ripping his insides from his body.

Others shambled towards the still Brian. He seemed not to notice it, though. Thoughts of death, of horrible terror, of pain unbounded shot through his mind, but he still did not notice the approaching zombies and their clacking jaws and dripping saliva.

They were almost upon him now, and soon he would end up like Bobby and Hilary.

Then, a hand shot out and gripped his arm, turned him around and soon Brian was looking into the now-urgent eyes of Greg. "We have to go," he said and dragged Brian away from the undead forces.

Brian came to his senses then, and fired randomly into the crowd of zombies as he and Greg retreated down the street.

To nowhere.

The vision dissolved, leaving only a cold certainty in its place. What I had seen hadn't happened yet, but it would. Somewhere in the country, perhaps in the next two weeks, there would be a young man named Brian who would experience everything I had just witnessed.

"Please, let it be wrong this time," I thought, "please."

But this had been the second vision of its kind. First the robbery that had ended badly for the thief, then this. Something was bound to go wrong, and terribly so.

A week later, I boarded a plane. I'd had a tooth and ear implant installed, much to my dismay. I made them make it so that only I could turn it on. I was on an airplane from my nondisclosed location (even I didn't know it), to Anchorage.

I didn't usually sleep whilst on a plain, but this time, almost immediately after takeoff, I lost the battle with my exhaustion, one I'd been fighting since I had had the waking vision a week before, and sank into sleep. Once again, I found myself experiencing someone else's life, their possible death.

This time, the person into whose head I had gone, probably without his even knowing it, was a paramedic, one who was probably, even now, in Rainbow Falls, that is if what I had been told about the infection getting loose there hadn't been just a lie designed to keep me where the Corporation wanted me. I watched, attempted to get as much information about the situation I was experiencing as I could.

Paramedic Peter Morris was familiar with the classification, Carrier Zero. The term was used to identify the first discovered subject of a new or rare anomaly. He had read about it in a medical journal once, but never once thought he would be witness to a new case. Even now, as he sits in a corner lighting a cigarette with trembling hands, he can still recall the horrid discovery of that day about a month ago. He begins to move from the congested waiting area into the busy hall of the barely operational hospital. There has been a lot of activity for the past couple of days, a lot of shouting and confusion mixed with people trying to help one another since the first victims of the multiplying effect began.

Peter can still replay the events of that day, and since then, in chronological sequences. It was mid or late September, he was bringing in two victims of a reported sewer maintenance accident. He could still remember the deep flesh wounds and lacerations. Blood everywhere, especially around areas where the victims' clothes seemed to have been bitten and torn off. For God sake, one of them was missing a left ear. Unfortunately, one of them died while on route to the hospital; from a deep laceration on the side of his neck. What was to happen next would be the beginning of an endless repeating cycle that he would see and continue to see since then.

It came back to life! How? It doesn't make sense, it just isn't possible. He was dead when they placed him on the examination table. Michael went through the normal usual procedures, strictly routine. He recorded his observations as he made them.

"Cause of death was due to a massive hemorrhage caused by the laceration on his neck."

"Yeah, but can you identify those bite marks?" Peter continued.

"Bite marks, where?"

"Here along his forearm and shoulder."

Michael inspects closer. "Strange, maybe rats or a wild dog," is what he said rather jokingly.

Sarcastically Peter responds, "Wild dog my ass."

"If you say so," still looking at the marks, "but there's something odd about them. Will you pass me the scalpel Pete?" Michael reached over the body to receive the scalpel when it grabbed his arm and bit right into it.

Michaels' screaming is the last thing Peter can remember, but the nightmare was yet to begin. Days after, the screaming continued as violent attacks began to rise all over the city. What followed next was an alarmingly steady rise in deaths across the city from two, at the time, undetermined factors. One was a mysterious incurable illness or virus which claimed the lives of many. The other, was the one Peter was slowly nauseously getting used to. Partially eaten victims were always the result, and Peter knew exactly what was causing it. At first he thought there was no connection, but after Michael had died from the illness he realized that the events were connected. The haunting image of Michael being bitten by the reanimated corpse creeps back into his mind.

Two days later his worst fears became reality as the news media quickly confirmed that the recently dead were returning to life. The unexplainable phenomenon spread fast like wildfire as it did in those old movies. It got to a point where Peter didn't need to see it on TV; he saw it first hand as it slowly infested his neighborhood like a virus. The police and National Guard foolishly tried to intercept and quarantine certain areas of contamination, but were only met with certain death by the overwhelming, marching, hungry, growing number of zombies. The screaming and later reanimation, it was hell manifesting and spreading uncontrollably through the city streets. All of this caused by the first carrier, which then led to the first bite and more biting followed by death and reanimation.

By the end of that week it had become too dangerous to continue living in his neighborhood. Looting had run out of control, neighborhood morale had crumbled as more people died from the infectious illness and later revived. It didn't make sense staying here anymore. Peter would decide that the best course of action is to leave and try to seek out help. Where? Those things are everywhere; the entire city will soon belong to them. Whatever he decided he knew he had to leave soon.

Peter moves down through the busy hall as several medical personnel move about aiding the injured. This is where he ended up since he left his home. Where else could he go? The need to seek refuge and especially other sane survivors was important. Living in isolation under these conditions was dangerous, although he had gotten accustomed to writing down his thoughts and daily occurrences; rather than keeping it all bottled up until it drives him mad. Since he had been at the hospital a lot of patients and medical personnel have died by either infection or left and never returned. There were still a decent amount of civilians and personnel holding out here, but the situation outside was intensifying; it was looking more like his neighborhood. The doors were reinforced, but they wouldn't hold forever. All of these people are in grave danger unless they move.

Peter slowly creeps into cold storage which has now become somewhat of a morgue. Dead bodies lie stockpiled here. Some were executed to prevent later revival, others were just plain dead. They will have to move these bodies out soon. As soon as the shit clears up a bit that you can carry them out and pile them up on the side of the street. Peter moves in closer as he once again confronts the horseman of the apocalypse which unleashed this plague. Carrier Zero is still laying here, executed, for purposes of further research to understand the phenomenon. It never happened, and it's pointless to start now. You infected and destroyed everything.

"Where did you fucking come from?" Peter's voice broke the silent air, "How did you get like this?" Like it's going to answer you back.

"God, why is this happening?"

The age old question asked, and just like throughout history, will be left unanswered. A loud commotion erupts outside.

Peter quickly moves back into the hall and sees people running in all directions, some coming his way.

"Move everyone out quickly," he could hear someone yelling in the background. Peter grabs the closest guy running towards him, "What's happening?"

"They're breaking in; they're trying to move everyone out."

The guy was frantic in his response. He must have been in his mid to late twenties, but his face was pale white with fear and terror which made him appear younger, like a lost child. Peter let him go and watched him run off; as he turned he saw the first of them. More of them entered and then the screaming began again as those unable to move or frozen with terror were caught first. Peter watched as death spread within hospital walls.

He knew what he had to do, it was time to run, even though he felt like staying and letting them take him. He couldn't do that, he had to survive. Survival was his only driving force because there was nothing else. If I survive this then that will be a tale for another story, if I survive.

I woke just as the "Fasten seatbelts" sign came on, with its accompanying ping. I raised my seat to the fully upright position, did as the sign instructed, and prepared to face what the corporation had done to me and my family.

When I reached security, the Corporation guard that had come with me flashed his and my papers, and we were allowed through without molestation. He slipped away on the other side of security. He had somewhere to go.

I could hear Ashlee coming. She was with Simon, too. There were two sets of smaller footfalls that I assumed were Taylor and Niamh.

They stopped in front of me.

"Well," said Ashlee. The moment was very uncomfortable.

I moved closer to them. I'd decided. "I'll tell you why, but not here. Too risky."

No one moved. I could feel Niamh's already sharp, keen mind probing outward. It was with the cold awareness that I had glimpsed within myself only a few times before with which she contacted me. It chilled me that she could grasp that cold, icy thing at will. I mourned that she even had it. I'd been forced into it only a few times before.

I put up shields. That would surprise her. She was used to unshielded minds, unless she'd tried contacting Simon. I knew his shields to be intense.

I reached for the connection. It was still there, but he'd shut me out. I didn't push it. I just reached to him, hoping that it would speak more than words.

Little by little, the barriers went down.

"I missed you," I said. "I missed you all. Niamh, learn to be a child. The time hasn't come to forget."

Simon took one hand and little Niamh took the other, and with Taylor's hand in Niamh's and Ashlee's in Taylor's, we walked down to Ashlee's car. I sat in the backseat with Taylor and Niamh.

Niamh had shot up like a weed in the past three years, but she'd always be small, lovely, dark, and delicate like poor Tatyana.

"Now will you explain?" said Simon, turning back toward me.

"I don't know. They could have slipped into your car and planted something."

"I'm sure no one has."

I did a sweep. There was nothing there.

Niamh would never tell... I knew this... but would Taylor? She didn't have power, or superior intelligence. She was just a little child, a little child who might innocently repeat things best not repeated. I would not let Taylor's pain, and Ashlee's grief, rest on my conscience.

"Not in front of Taylor and Niamh," I said. It was terrible to exclude Taylor alone. In her small, childlike mind, even she would suspect something. And if she didn't, she'd just be jealous. I didn't want to break Taylor and Niamh's friendship.

"What is it?" said Simon.

"I'm supposed to kill whoever I tell."

Niamh looked up at me, comprehension dawning on her dark little face. "Corporation," she said. A word that she should stumble over at such a young age came out clearly.

"Exactly."

They asked no more questions.

When we arrived back at the house, we banished Taylor and Niamh from the room, and I told Simon and Ashlee everything that had happened.

"You're expecting me to believe this," said Ashlee. "You walk right out of our lives, abandoning your baby and your husband, and you expect me to believe you were taken to a secret facility and experimented on?"

"I believe her," said Simon.

"You're hopeless. Love is blind," said Ashlee.

"I expect you to believe the truth," I said. "And that's what I've told you."

"You walked out! You didn't even fucking look back!" said Ashlee. Then, quieter: "When I was thirteen, you told me you'd have my back forever. You'd told me you'd stand up for me and who I loved, and I'd do the same for you. For seven years, you did what you said you would. But then you fucking disappeared."

"Believe me, I hated every minute of it."

"If you're telling the truth, I suppose you're not even human anymore. God! You'll have mutant babies!"

Simon stood up so fast that you couldn't see it. His chair skittered backward. "Don't," he said, his voice like a dark, icy knife. And he looked pretty impressive, a full nine inches taller than Ashlee, radiating power. "I wouldn't advise it. You forget. Most of the money that pays for you to stay in this house with all your utilities and all your luxuries is mine. What do you do? You still work at Car's, and you're not good enough at that to earn a stable income. You earn barely enough money to scrape by alone, let alone raise Taylor. Keep it up and you can go live with Elke."

"Elke has her fifteenth boyfriend this year!" Ashlee cried, "I don't want to sleep in a room next to them having sex!"

"You'd probably end up having sex with the man yourself," Simon retorted, "I'm surprised you only have one child."

"Quit it! Both of you!" I said. "Just shut the fuck up!"

Ashlee stormed out. I could hear her upstairs, packing hers and Taylor's few possessions. The minutes until the door slammed and she and Taylor were gone were spent in stunned silence.

Niamh burst in, crying. I picked her up and rocked her. Her tears opened the floodgates in my own eyes. I wanted to scream. I wanted to forget all of it. I wanted to start over.

But I couldn't. That hurt the most. I could never, ever undo the damage I'd caused.

Simon sat down beside Niamh and me. I let him hold both of us while we cried.

When my tears subsided enough for me to speak, I said, "Do you really think she'll go to Elke's?"

"I don't know, Iyana, I don't know."

"What about poor Taylor? What about Niamh?"

Niamh looked up at me. "I can't be a child," she said. "I know what you saw."

Simon drew us in closer. "I don't know."

The phone rang.

"Let it ring," said Simon.

It rang again ... and again ... and again.

"Fine, I'll get it," said Simon. Removing one arm from around Niamh and me, he picked it up. "What?"

I could hear the woman yelling through the phone. She'd had it in for me for five years before I left.

"What the fuck is that bitch doing back?"

With tightly controlled anger, Simon said, "How the fuck did you get our number?" I glanced sharply at him, Niamh was in the room! but he didn't feel it.

Tabitha Mariana was the woman's name, and she hated me with a vengeance, jealous of me for having Simon. The woman was now thirty-seven at least, but she still hated me. She'd tried to kill me while I was pregnant with Niamh.

Niamh squirmed out of my grip as I was listening to Tabitha rant.

"Tia gave it to me," I heard her say. "You know, Simon, you shouldn't let her back. You don't know where she's been for the past three years. She could have been whoring for all you know."

"I don't think you have room to talk!" The dark ice was back in Simon's voice. "You really don't."

Tabitha tried to kill me because she wanted Simon. I'd kill Tia. The woman had betrayed us. She hadn't liked us for eight years, but I'd thought we had peace, if somewhat uneasy. But Tia and Luna had jumped at the chance to hurt us.

I'd never forgive them.

What doesn't kill us makes us stronger. By now, I thought, I should be damned indestructible. I had Tia, Tabitha, and Luna to thank for one thing... I'd survived Tabitha's poison and the others' betrayal. I was stronger for it. I was stronger for Tabitha's hate, her insistence upon making my life a living hell. I was stronger with their every unkindness.

It was a bitter gratitude, the kind you choke on, the kind that can kill you.

"Tia and Luna had no business giving out our number," said Simon.

"The bitches shouldn't have gotten it in the first place! I warned you! Hang up on the bitch!"

Simon slammed down the phone. "We're getting a restraining order against her."

"About fucking time!" I burst out. "That woman's had it in for me for what, eight years now?"

"Just about. Come here. Where's Niamh?"

I sat down beside him. "Somewhere. I'm not sure."

"If this infection is loose in Rainbow Falls ..."

I needed the cold. I needed the nothingness. The image of Tatyana, such a small and lovely woman, lying dead and broken somewhere, fed on by mutant zombies, was a terrible one.

"Tatyana and all my family will be dead ... or worse."

There was a commotion in the front of the house, and before either of us could go to see what it was, Niamh streaked into the room. "Ashlee and Taylor!" she cried. We were out to the main room in a flash, and there was Ashlee, white-faced and shaking, with Taylor hiding behind her. "Don't go out there! Oh God, don't go ou..."

Suddenly, glass and bodies and debris were flying. I didn't need to call up the terrifying, icy abyss; it came, crashing over me with the force of a tidal wave. I opened up farther, and let the full force of nightmares run amok.

Something heavy landed on me. I spun with its momentum and flung it with all the force it had hit me with. I heard it hit the wall with an ominous cracking sound. I saw lights, flickering and dancing, and I realized it was fire. Smoke and dust filled the room.

There was the sound of a harsh, guttural scream. I leapt into the air and caught the edge of the window-frame, my hands holding on like a vise, and kicked the next one backward through the window. I let go, sailing through the room, kicking two of them squarely in the jaw with enough force to snap their necks on the way, and landed lightly on my feet.

Something small wrapped itself around my legs. I knew, instinctively, that it was Niamh. In a single fluid motion I flipped to avoid another body, and swung her over my shoulder.

"Run!" I screamed. "Because your life does depend on it!" The words seemed to have rent reality with their force. I hoped Taylor and Ashlee would make it out.

A hand grabbed mine and pulled. I leapt through the window, cleared the fence, and hit the ground running, Simon attached to one hand and Niamh over my shoulder.

I didn't need to look; I could feel everything around me in that icy awareness that pervaded my body.

I heard someone running after me. The footfalls were too fast and light to be one of the infected; the majority of them were far more clumsy and slow.

"Iyana! Stop!"

I spun around so fast that I lost hold of Simon and Niamh slithered off my shoulder and landed on the ground at my feet. "Were you bit?" I said. The fire was ebbing from my consciousness. I'd never learned to summon and control it at will, and until now I'd never wanted to.

Ashlee was standing there, clothes ragged, so drained of color she was ghostlike. She was holding Taylor. There was blood streaming down the little girl's face.

"Were you bitten?" I repeated.

"My baby was," said Ashlee. I heard the numbness in her voice. Her emotions were checked out. Good. She wouldn't survive any other way. I guess there's a bit of that coldness in all of us, deep in our souls in places we're too afraid to look, and that's what makes it easy to lose your mind.

"Leave her," I said.

"Why? Why should I abandon...?"

"Do you want to die?" I put all the force I'd ever heard in Daniel's voice when he put on that cold mask, and in Janes's, and in all the training I'd received in the Corporation, into my voice.

"No..."

Taylor started to squirm.

"Drop her. Now." When Ashlee made no move, I leapt forward and knocked the little girl out of her grasp. Taylor wrapped herself around Ashlee's legs, shivered, spasmed violently, and sank her teeth into Ashlee's ankle.

"What the fuck?" Ashlee swung back to hit me but I blocked her easily, and as she attacked and I continued to easily block her, I said: "One: If you're going to survive, it's always you first! That's your first fucking priority, understand? Two: You can't fight worth shit. You have to be faster, stronger, tougher, colder, or you're dead, or worse, but since you'd be checked out, it shouldn't matter. Now move or I'll drag you by your pretty little hairbows!" It was harsh, but it was what she needed. I certainly hoped I wasn't taking after Janes, though.

Stunned by my harshness and spurred by the sound of another mob in the distance, she followed me.

We slipped from shadow to shadow in the darkness. With my Corporation training, I was exceedingly better at stealth than the others. Eventually Simon picked up Niamh when she grew tired. Taylor could never have kept up with us, and it was too late to bring her back. We avoided the mobs only because of my currently heightened senses. There were parts of that cold I refused to touch, the parts I couldn't control. I was unique in my ability to control the terrible frenzies that overcame the zombies. Daniel had once said there was probably a place, buried in my subconscious, that if broken would make me fully one of them. I was constantly afraid that I would break it in my sleep. I only entered a dormant state now. It was invented by Daniel and his minions, because they'd had the same fear.

We stopped.

I recognized where we were.

"Oh, no." That traitor bitch!

I felt a rough hand cover my mouth. I bit down, hard. If I bite things and call up the rage in its most basic form, I can be contagious. I wanted this one to suffer. I knew him.

And then I let go.

I was a flurry of movement, faster than light, twisting and shrieking. In the back of my mind I was painfully aware; the infection doesn't care about bodily needs except to feed. But despite the fact that losing control made me panic, I forced myself to the back of my mind, and curled up there.

He tried to pin me down. I writhed out from under him, delivering blows to the face and chest, and taking as many in return, the infection is strategically shit, even though it has its own awareness. I could hear bones cracking in his face. I dug my nails into his eyes and ripped. Ruby-red blood and eye innards fountained. I spun, flipped, landed on his chest, and pounded his face. In the back of my mind, I started to be afraid.

ENOUGH!

The rage left me, and suddenly I was so weak and shaky I couldn't stand. I rolled off him, and collapsed.

I felt cold metal pressed against my head.

I looked up, into the face of the only person I'd ever truly hated with every fiber of my being.

She was my pseudo mother, the woman who'd taken me from my mother, my home, and my whole family when I was still a baby. Janes had cruelly unlocked those memories from my subconscious as punishment for my only failure so far once. I hated Janes and my kidnapper, but Janes I didn't want vengeance on, yet. That desire would come much later, after much had happened, after I discovered who Janes truly was, but for now I wanted vengeance on the Corporation itself.

I wanted vengeance on this one.

I didn't need to call it. It came. It came with such an intensity that for a minute, I fully lost control. I thought that I'd never regain my senses.

It was too fast for me to know what happened. All I know was that there was a whirlwind of arms, legs, hands, feet, nails, teeth, and then she was lying fifty feet away with a hole in her face.

They wouldn't be crossing me again, if they lived.

I wrenched myself back to reality. My legs gave out. Curse it! I hated being weak! Ever since the things Janes had done to me, I tried to be constantly prepared, always strong, always alert. My senses missed very little. The cold was easier to wrap myself in. The cold wasn't quite the frenzy, that is indescribable and best left so, but the cold is my last sanctuary. When one lives in a world where to stay alive is to feel nothing, what is there to live for?

But those are the thoughts of a child, an idealistic dreamer. Even though I knew there were terrible things about reality then, I had no idea what it could sink to, until now.

"They're well-armed here. We could stay," I said.

The man beside me made an unintelligible sound, but it was still a definite negative.

"Afraid of change? Is true disillusionment going to drive you insane?" I hissed. "I'll give you disillusionment." I shut my eyes, and spoke with the full force of the icy cold, so far removed from any sane awareness it was nearly like the frenzy, but it was controlled. "The mechanism of change is blind!" I was aware how inhuman my voice sounded, the sibilant, growling hiss characteristic of the infected very present, and the impact I had on the man. "It is blind, and pays little mind to what it leaves behind. At the cold hand of change comes bloodshed, destruction, pain, fear, devastation, disaster, disease, famine, death, in short, terrible times, Armageddon, the apocalypse, whatever you call it. But though change seems so blind ..." and here my voice became human again, as little by little I let the abyss go "... in fact, it has sight. It brings hope. Determination. Great things." I pulled on that energy that feeds the frenzy, and stood up.

"What do we do about them?" Ashlee asked.

"Don't even! You lured me here! You could join them!" I said. "You're infected anyway!" I strode up the driveway. Simon, carrying Niamh, followed me.

I climbed the steps. They were too stupid to hide the key. I unlocked the door and slipped in.

They'd stashed food and weapons up the ass! There was enough here to feed and protect six people for six months. But if it was just going to be Simon, Niamh, and I, we'd last for a year here.

I warded the whole place with Simon's help (I didn't trust myself feeding on the infection's energy), crawled into the bed in my room with Simon beside me, and got some well-earned sleep, or what passed for it.

When I woke, Simon stood at the gunslit fashioned from the boarded-up front window.

"It smells of infection out there," he said.

"You'd know," I said, "wouldn't you?"

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"It's very distinctive."

I cast my senses outward. Despite intensive training, they'd remained stubbornly, and disturbingly, murky. They'd been trying to make me into some sort of superhuman, spy, assassin, or maybe a perversion of a superhero. I was strong and psychic to a degree, but not what they'd been looking for. I was surprised they'd sent their precious project, half-finished though it was, out into the big bad real world.

"Can't find anything. Can't even tell if they're alive." I'd discovered that, with my senses, life meant something different than it had before. Life, or the sense of it, became disturbingly like the pull of blood. Life was a scent carried on the wind. It was enticing, but since I had ultimate control, I could ignore it. I'd come to realize that the dreaded abyss had been incorporated into my conscious mind. I had control over its true form, but part of it was always in my mind, influencing everything I did. But the infection didn't register itself as "alive" for some reason.

To Simon, I knew that the sense of life was not the scent of fresh blood, but the spark of the life itself, the part of it that exists without explanation, a person's soul. He sensed their souls, I smelled their blood. Infected blood never smelled as fresh, it smelled old and dry and tainted. I wondered if it was because their blood was cold.

I went out and made breakfast. "We have to have a plan," I said when Simon came out. Then I added, "Niamh's not hungry?"

"No, not really."

It had always seemed as though Niamh was a quieter, more intelligent baby. She'd slept less. Her teeth grew in faster and she learned to walk faster than most children her age. She caught very few of the normal childhood illnesses. It almost appeared as if she flicked them away. Her eyes were a phenomenon, pure gold-on-gold, no whites. She had to wear giant specialized lenses.

Niamh came out and looked up at me. When she tried to scamper off, I caught her, and turned her back to me.

There was something subtly different about her eyes.

And then I realized. My mind's sight was surprisingly clear when I looked at her eyes. Their pure gold color was darkening into a deeper, richer shade.

She tried to squirm free. I focused even closer.

And they changed.

Her eyes weren't gold at all. Not now.

They were a pure black, whiteless, except for the stars dancing in them, stars of many colors, mostly silver, gold, white, and blue flecks.

I stood up and went to the window. There was a body standing in the yard, skin hanging and mottled, face disfigured, hairless and bleeding.

I focused my mind on its eyes.

They were sheer, glassy black. There were no whites, no stars, no flecks, no nothing. Just black orbs that reminded me of deep, smooth pits.

"We better get going," I said.

There was a beating on the door. I smelled blood; it was either a whole person, or one who hadn't turned yet.

"Who is it?" I said, putting force into my voice.

"Ashlee."

That's strange. She'd been infected. And she couldn't have come by antidote.

"Open it. It's her," said Simon.

I opened the door.

"She bit into my boot, Iyana, she didn't get my skin. Please. You need a pair of sighted eyes, no offense."

"What harm can it do? We have room," said Simon.

"Gee, I don't know," I said. "She did lead us to my jailer and her bitch boy."

"Holy shit," said Ashlee.

"Is Niamh in here?" said Simon.

"No, I don't think so," I said.

"Please, we can't leave this door open for long," said Ashlee. "Unless..."

Something grabbed her from behind. I slammed the door.

"We're not going to help her?"

"Please. They worked on my eyes, but not that much. Even they can't regrow perfect optic nerves."

"That surprises me somehow," said Simon.

There was the sound of gunshots, and then Ashlee was beating on the door. I opened it and she squirmed in.

"You need me because: I can drive, shoot a gun, and see what's happening."

"You need me," I said, "because I'm knowledgeable and enhanced."

"You need me because ... I'm powerful?" Simon finished, lamely.

"No, because you're brilliant, but I guess that too," I said. Simon really was brilliant, with a mind rivaling some of the smartest alive. If we ever broke into the Corporation, we'd definitely need him.

"We could keep people here. There's room downstairs," said Ashlee. "We could start a resistance."

"Resistance, my ass," I said. "We can't resist this. And we can't stay. I know how the infection is drawn to fresh blood, trust me. I know. We have to keep moving."

"Look at all this!" Ashlee spread her arms to encompass the whole house. "There's everything here! We could live here for months!"

"Not really. The place is easy to defend, but if we're surrounded we'd have no possible way out. We're actually very vulnerable here."

"We can take the truck. I went and got it last night. It's got a full tank of gas."

"Yeah, but how many miles a gallon does this one get?"

"With that new device, it's a hundred, isn't it?" said Ashlee.

"Pretty nice," I said. "We can make it far on that."

"Do you think Canada's safe?" Simon asked.

"Oh, for now. For the next week, maybe," I said. "The infection is like wildfire."

"We should at least see if they can contain it."

"Are you mental?" I said. "Come on. Let's pack. We have a long way to go."

"We have an endless way to go," said Niamh quietly, standing in the doorway.

I was afraid she was right.

We pushed the truck to its limits hauling ass out of Anchorage. We encountered the hysterical masses about seventy miles south of the city. The roads were swarming with Corporation people, but they couldn't contain the crowds at all.

The storms started a hundred miles south of the city. They were horrible black storms, striking with a vengeance like the wrath of God. Day turned to night and night became eternal. The storms flung upon us the fury of the heavens, heavy black clouds and dark, tainted rain falling so hard that it hurt and in such thick sheets that we were forced to pull over periodically. There was thunder that boomed so loud it shook the air in your chest and lightning so bright that night periodically turned to day for seconds at a time.

We made very little headway in the storms and the mobs. I fretted about this. I wanted to be moving. Sure, I could shut off the infection, but I couldn't eliminate its influence. I was surrounded by the smell of sweat and blood and the crackling intensity of fear, and I felt like a trapped thing, wild and skittish, like at any second I would bolt. It wore on my senses until I had a roaring migraine.

Simon seemed to sense my edginess. "There's nothing we can do."

"I'm trying, trust me," said Ashlee, maneuvering to avoid a spinning, swerving car and nearly crashing into one that cut in front of her. "Motherfucker!" she gritted out. Making for a lane that we could just barely passed through, she zipped through and made for a side street that was less crowded.

"I'm trying to stick to the back roads," she said. "It's longer, but not as long z... shit!"

A mob had surrounded us. There were people in ragged clothes, some with noticeable bite marks that the others were trying to avoid. They beat on the windows, the sides of the truck. Their screams were unintelligible.

"Infected. Some haven't turned yet, but they're all infected," I said. Their blood smelled cold, and those who didn't had a strange, harsh, animal taint to it.

"Fine." Ashlee rammed on the accelerator. "Hold on to your butts."

We powered through the masses as they tore and beat at the truck with bloody hands and ragged nails.

The truck accelerated faster. With the pedal to the floor, we were flying at over a hundred miles an hour, and clear of the zombies, within seconds.

"Slow down! The tarp's loose!" said Niamh. She had jumped through the space between Ashlee and me and into the back seat.

Ashlee stopped so abruptly it threw me forward. She got out and went around the truck, and I could hear her cursing loudly and inventively.

"Stay with Niamh," I said. I got up and went around to find her.

"Shit!" I said, surveying the damage. "Jesus H motherfucking tap-dancing Christ on a crotch rocket!" Ashlee couldn't help but to laugh.

My telekinesis was still very weak. They'd been trying to teach me and show me how to focus my power, but I'd simply been unable. Some doors take a lot to unlock. There was food strung down the road for a mile.

"Help me," I said, "and be quick." We gathered the food and shoved it in, tying the tarp securely, but we weren't quick enough.

There was the sound of bare feet slapping in the zombies' characteristic duck-footed, clumsy gait behind us, and then something hit me in the back.

I spun and kicked the thing in the crotch. That distracted it for only a second, but it was fast enough for Ashlee to pull out her gun and shoot it in the head.

"Simon! Close the door!" Ashlee yelled, as the things swarmed in from all sides.

We circled around both sides of the truck, Ashlee holding her own with dazzling gun and knife fighting. Ashlee was terrible at hand-to-hand combat, but she was wicked with knives and guns, with a deadly accurate aim.

Ashlee scaled the side of the truck and wormed up the back window like a snake. From her place on the truck's roof, she had a greater vantage point and was less vulnerable than I was. Despite my new speed and agility, I'm not indestructible, just a little harder to kill.

I circled around to the side. "Simon!" I yelled, beating on the window. "Give me Niamh!"

Simon rolled down the window a crack. "Are you mental?" he said.

"Just do it!" Niamh was already standing up, looking at me with those dark-on-dark, glittering eyes.

"Your eyes!" said Niamh. "Your eyes."

"Give me Niamh!" I screamed, dodging a zombie. "Now!"

Wordlessly, he rolled down the window, handed me Niamh, and rolled it back up.

They seemed to shy away from Niamh, glassy eyes rolling and flicking, heads flicking from side to side worriedly. They weren't above attacking her if she were weak, I realized, but they were wary. If we couldn't get rid of them soon, they'd get rid of their wariness and become more curious.

I ran around the side, handed Niamh up to Ashlee, and jumped into the truck.

"Are you all right?" said Simon. The tenderness in his voice reminded me of old times, and I wanted to cry.

"I will be." I couldn't keep my voice from cracking.

"We'll be okay," he said as he put his arms around me. "We have to be, don't we?"

Ashlee jumped in; white-faced, started the truck up, hit the gas, and drove as fast as she could.

We were forced to stop again before another hour had gone by. The first I knew that something was wrong was when Ashlee slammed on the breaks, causing my body to strain painfully against the seatbelt. Ahead of us was another crowd of people, most of whom weren't infected, at least not yet. Even through the closed windows of the truck I could hear their voices, but they didn't sound afraid. They sounded like people in the throws of some religious rapture.

Overtopping them was a single male voice raised in what could only be the fundamentalist Christian version of public speaking. I recognized it right away, the shouting, the haranguing, the habit of twisting the tails of certain words when excited.

"We are damned-a! God has visited a curse on us-a! For all have sinned-a and fallen short-a of the glory of god-a! And it is-a written, that in the last days-a, that the dead shall rise from their graves-a, and this has happened-a! These are the last times-a! God has turned-a his face away! Man's evils have multiplied-a! Fornication-a! Drugs-a! Gambling-a! Homosexuality! God has said-a that this will not last-a and that those who do not repent-a will be destroyed-a, and it is happening-a! The dead walk among us! The graves open! The world as we have always known it is no more! There is no hope left-a! We are doomed-a!"

"Oh Jesus fucking H Christ," I said, "can someone shut him the fuck up?"

"If he doesn't do it on his own pretty soon," Simon said, "I'm sure there'll be a few deaders who'll be more than happy to do us that favor. I mean, stupid idiotic fundies, anyone?"

Ashlee made to open the driver's side door, but Simon stopped her.

"You really don't want to go out there," he said calmly.

"We've got to get him to move his people," Ashlee returned.

"Hello," Simon said, looking out the window and then back at Ashlee, "am I the only one who's noticed that he's holding his fucking prayer meeting in a graveyard, Ashlee?"

Ashlee looked at Simon for a second and turned back to the view of the outside, showing me through her eyes what she was seeing, just in time to see a figure that was more skeletal than anything else shambling behind the fence of the cemetery the idiot fundy had chosen for his latest, and most likely last, service of the post-modern church of holy doom and gloom. The preacher didn't notice anything, probably thanks to running his mouth so loudly that a statue could have heard him, at least until the thing behind him sank its teeth into his throat. Blood spouted nearly eight feet into the air. His flock, apparently deciding a little too late that they wanted to live, made a break for the gates, but it was no good. Coming toward them from the direction we had been driving in before we'd been stopped, were about three dozen of the infected. The first of the things reached the forerunners of the disorganized evacuation, and with ragged nails, tore open the hapless woman's stomach. A flood of stinking half-liquid substance spilled out as the zombie burrowed, face first, into its victim. Others in the crowd met a similar fate. One of them made it almost all the way to the truck before a rotted thing that had once been a dog leapt from the brush at the side of the road and brought him down.

Ashlee turned away and was violently sick.

"Jesus Christ," Simon said softly, "why did they come here? Why did they listen to him?"

"Because," I said, 'they were lost. They needed someone to lead them. They chose him and he led them straight to hell. Remember Jim Jones?"

"But why here of all places?" Simon asked, still not quite able to grasp it, "why here when he knew the world was being overrun by killer undead? Can you think of anywhere that could possibly be any worse?"

"No," I answered.

Simon looked at me for a long moment and said, "Neither can I."

Ashlee was silent for a moment, then she said in a low voice, "Open the Gate, lest I cause the Dead to rise and devour the Living. Open the Gate, lest I cause the Dead to outnumber the Living. Open the Gate, lest I give the Dead power over the Living."

"What the fuck?" I asked in surprise.

"Just something I read once," Ashlee answered."

Where the hell did you pick up something like that?" Simon asked. Ashlee seemed unwilling to answer and after a moment, as if sensing this, Simon turned away from her and looked out the window again at the scene of carnage before us.

Exhaustion overcame me again a short while later, and I didn't have the strength to fight it. I lay my head on Simon's shoulder and closed my eyes. As I half-slept, I saw, once again, as if I was no more than some sort of receiver for events broadcast to some unknown viewer, yet another vision. As the others had the ring of truth, this one did, but it made no sense. The infection had supposedly been released in Rainbow Falls, but what I was seeing was quite clearly in the continental United States. Police lined a city street, and behind them...

The rain started to drizzle lightly as Dallas police setup roadblocks in the middle of downtown. The moaning, audible over the sound of scurrying policeman, became louder as the distorted figures lurched down the street towards the loose knit barricade. The officers hurriedly moved their squad cars together as a few of the creatures began getting closer. Lieutenant Richard Henderson was the onsite commanding officer, an older man with balding gray hair and a stocky build. He had been working to clean these streets since he joined the force over 20 years ago. Now everything appeared to be changing right before his eyes. These weren't criminals they were trying to stop anymore. People in business suits, doctors uniforms, hell even other cops he'd worked with half his life were being infected by those things.

"Hold your fire until they're within range", he shouted over the megaphone. The other officers prepared for the oncoming attackers, loading shells into their shotguns and taking aim over the hoods of their cruisers.

Line of sight down the block was poor, abandoned cars were strewn about the street and a city bus lay turned over on its side making it difficult to see how many of them were coming. Lieutenant Henderson winced as he spotted a few shadowy figures making their way around the corner of the bus.

"Halt! Halt! Stop or we will open fire! Take them out!"

He drew his 9mm as the officers began to unload rounds into the small crowd of ghouls. Limbs began to shred as the shotgun blasts ripped through their dead flesh. Blood oozed out from their wounds as the zombies inched closer to the police line.

"Fuck, fuck...they're not stopping Lieutenant!" cried one of the men as Henderson drained the last of his clip into the abdomen of the closest zombie.

As the ghoulish creatures made their way through the intersection towards the officers, one of the men took aim with his shotgun at the nearest zombie's skull. The slug shattered the demented being's face as it burrowed through and out the other side. Instantly its body dropped to the blood soaked pavement as the zombie horde pressed on.

"Aim high! aim high!" was shouted over the gunfire as a few of the men began reloading their weapons.

Suddenly the entrance to an office building behind the police blockade crashed open, as zombies began pouring out into the street. Henderson spun around just in time to see an endless sea of the undead flowing towards him. He raised his gun to fire but it was too late, the killers had already plowed into the cars biting and scratching at the men. Lieutenant Henderson's life drained down his neck as he watched in horror, the legions of the dead make their way through the city... it was now theirs.

When I awoke, we were well beyond the scene of the massacre in the cemetery, but still far from our goal. Under normal circumstances, it would have taken a mere twelve or so hours to reach the Canadian border from Anchorage, but now that the world had gone to nine different levels of Hell without the benefit of a handbasket, there was no way of knowing how long the drive would take.

The days passed by in a haze. I became drained and listless. The rain surrounding us in its dirty gray curtains merely served to dampen our spirits. The countryside was deserted but we still stayed nowhere for more than a night, for fear of the zombies.

We reached the Canadian border at some point, and they stopped us. "We can't let anyone out," one man said. He was tall and imposing, with level gray eyes that seemed to take everything in at once. If it affected him, it didn't disturb that mask of a face, which was like a still calm pool of deep water.

I dug around in the bag at my feet and took out my Corporation papers, wordlessly handing them to him.

He looked at them.

"We've been looking for you," he said when he looked back at me. "You'll want to get out."

"What are you going to do?" Simon asked suspiciously.

"We've been looking for you, too, actually," said the man.

"You owe us an explanation," said Ashlee.

"It's Corporation business. Not even we're allowed to step into that. We were just told to find Iyana, Niamh, and Simon Jaeger, no questions asked, and bring them to the Canada facility, and to let anyone with them pass without molestation. The Corporation will take care of all of you."

"I'm not going back there," I said. I felt other presences drawing near. He knew I noticed them and he knew I didn't care. "I swore never to go back there, you understand, never. Corporation orders be damned."

Anyone else would have been shocked. Something very brief, related to some form of bitter amusement, flitted across the man's face, but then his gray eyes grew more intent. He leaned forward. "I know about the infection, Iyana. I know everything." He lowered his voice further. Only I, and maybe Simon, could hear it. "I'd help you if it was possible. The Corporation is doing terrible things. They are, among other things, reconstructing something called the big combination. I don't know exactly what that is, but whatever it is; the plans for it I saw tell me it's nothing anyone wants completed. Who knows, they might reform the damned planet. If I have a say in it, it won't happen. And Iyana, I have a say in it."

"Are you offering me something?"

He smiled. It was a smile that contained nothing but cold, icy, freezing cold. "A way out, Iyana. The best way out you could imagine. Help me and all of this can be ended."

"Thing is, I'm not that dumb," I said sadly. "Alex, as much as you'll lie and scheme to save this world, you and I both know damned well we can't." I considered. "I think I know how to ... persuade a few."

He didn't let anything show, but I sensed a tired hope. "Rainbow Falls, by the way, was never affected. There's an Alaska facility sixteen miles outside Anchorage. They let it out, to test you. They thought they could contain it, but they were wrong. Nukes didn't work, the virus was too far spread for antivirus, and they couldn't keep the zombies in the city. There was also a secondary release state-side. Nobody knows how that one happened, but there are theories." He passed me a small cell phone. "Protected channel, highest government clearance and authorization. I'll be in Rainbow Falls. It's the key, Iyana. I think they've got antivirus there."

"Aren't you one of the types who'd steal the virus?"

"Oh trust me. It's already taken care of itself. Stopping it depends on me."

I sighed and pocketed the phone. "Do I have a choice?"

All trace of expression left his face, and it was a stone mask.

"You don't."

"Who are you, that can get government phones and antivirus and manipulate them in to getting you in to Rainbow Falls?" I asked suspiciously.

"Alexander," he said.

I knew the name. I was told to know the name. It was his real name, but not the identity most, aside from Daniel, knew him by. He was another, but he'd defected from the Corporation in secret. He was at the Canadian facility, not headquarters. But then again, who knows, I thought. The Canadian facility might be the headquarters. That might be where I was for three years. I shivered. I did not want to go back there, wherever there was.

He fixed me with those level gray eyes and dared me to challenge him. He returned to "normal," the conversation between us apparently nonexistent. I was starting to get an idea of how he operated, and that would be hard for most to puzzle out. "They're ordered to let you by without molestation. They're questioning right now. I can feel them questioning."

They said they'd make thirteen people with the infection, five men, five women, and three children. Niamh and I were the only two I'd known of. Here was a third, and little did I know, but relatively soon, I would encounter two others, but only after events occurred that would prove to be much more than life-altering. "I can smell them questioning," he said. He really was much more powerful than I. "Come with me, Iyana. Trust me. I know what they've done."

Niamh squirmed out of my lap and crawled across Ashlee's lap. Breath hissing faintly through her teeth, the sparks in her night-sky eyes flickering and dancing, she looked at him. She cocked her head one way, listening, and to the other, listening. She nodded jerkily, as if to some unheard question, and leapt out the window before anyone could catch her.

I jumped out and ran around the truck. "Niamh!"

Alexander was holding her. She turned that gaze to me, intent, questioning, curious, head cocked. She was hissing louder.

Her eyes flashed white, then red, and she leapt out of Alexander's arms. Her body seemed to flex, and the little shirt tore. The skin on her back burst, revealing raw, exposed tissue. Blood poured down in a glowing ruby rain. I'd never seen blood shine and shimmer like that.

Then I realized what was strange about the moment, she was still in the air!

"Niamh!" I said, running toward her, regardless of the blood. Before my eyes her back was healing. There seemed to be a white film on her back.

As she wavered in the air, wings like miniature sails erupted from her back and carried her into the storm.

"Niamh! Alexander, I can't fly!" I said.

The wind picked up and whirled like a mad thing. I could hear Niamh somewhere in the storm. She was laughing, but it was not a human, sane sound. I shivered, and it wasn't entirely from cold. Alexander's face was blank, but something in his eyes whirled.

The wind whirled faster, whistling. The rain lashed my face, its cold soaking through my clothes and chilling me to the bone. It was raining perpendicular to the ground, so hard it hurt. The black clouds above roiled like the ash of a volcanic eruption. It was Heaven in all its wrath. Or maybe it was Hell. I could feel something wild stirring in my mind, a strange, unheard rhythm beating in my blood, making it run hot. Was this how Niamh had felt? Where did it end? Did it end? Or did it carry you so high you wanted, no, needed, to shatter apart, to lose your mind, and fly with it, and break with it, and be remade with it in miraculous healing?

I heard the sound of something slamming, and then strong arms were around me, and I was lifted off my feet. I felt the music beat faster, stronger, in my blood.

I turned to look up at Simon and in one graceful, powerful downstroke; we were carried into the air. Huge white wings surrounded us, carrying us effortlessly on the wild wind. Simon swept us higher into the storm on wings that were barely in his control anymore.

I looked down, and only then realized how far we'd gone in barely a moment. I could see Alexander standing below us.

I felt myself lift free from Simon. I didn't even need wings! I was effortless in the air! I flew higher, whirling, laughing, exultant, indestructible. With a thought, I shot straight up into the sky. I could hear the beat of the powerful wings below me, but I laughed, a clear sound in the roiling wind. No one could catch me! I was invincible!

I should have known not to show off, flipping and twirling, somersaulting and spinning, and thinking I was indestructible. I'd cleared the storm but I was so high up the air was thin and I was lighter.

A shadow fell over me, and Simon caught me, carrying me slowly back toward the storm. The music beat hotter, faster.

Suddenly the powerful wings downstroked and we were thrown into the sky.

And I discovered just how much my emotions, and the sense of them, had changed, and just how far they could go.

As we drifted down toward the ground, white wings spread above us like some giant feathery cloak, I wondered again how they could have infected Simon and Niamh, and how that could have altered things so much. There were several times they could have taken advantage and done something to Simon that I could think of. I remembered a time I'd had serious trouble with Niamh, and her heart had stopped for two minutes. She was born unable to breathe. As a baby, she was in and out of the hospital as they tried to correct her heart problems. Yet somehow she'd gotten stronger than normal.

The Corporation, confident of their abilities, could have caused Niamh's heart problem, feigning something serious when it was really caused by careful doses of different drugs that would counteract each other and cause their desired effect, things they could have easily reversed, but blamed it on something serious because they could make serious symptoms show.

Then again, I knew they'd done it blatantly and openly in 2003, but they'd made a mistake. This one wasn't a known disease, so they'd found it harder to introduce me to the infection because I was not in the hospital that whole time.

It also made it more difficult for them to reverse the drugs' effect on me. I'd had nervous damage, slight though it seemed to be, for ten years, until three years ago when they corrected it after taking me to their facility. Of course, they'd also designed it that way, I realized. It was an intentional flaw they'd caused.

Then again, they could have easily caused several things that had happened to all three of us that I could name. They'd caused Niamh's heart trouble and my undiagnosable disease, why not anything else? They were clever enough with drugs and chemicals that they could produce any desired set of symptoms, feign a disease to near perfection, feign correcting it and get away with it, so why couldn't they have caused anything more than Niamh's and my issues?

They also could have set up several other incidents to check on and carefully control the infection after introducing it. Why not cause an accident so they could induce it when they knocked you out? I must admit, the whole thing was ingenious, if cold-minded and very risky. Now I understood why evil schemes were so brilliant, because lots of the truly brilliant people were behind them. We could have gone our entire lives without recognizing it!

We landed in a billowing cloud of feathers and dust. I realized that not everyone had escaped the music that had suffused the storm.

Alexander was furious. His still, unreadable face didn't show it, but his eyes were dark grey storm clouds. "Are you MAD?" he hissed. He was one of those who got quietly angry. He was formidable in his rage. "Couldn't you have saved that for some other time?"

"Sorry. Things like that just sort of ... happen."

Alexander glared at us. "Another uncontrollable aspect of the mutated infection. Daniel will want to know about it." His tone implied he wasn't sure he'd mention it.

The clouds above us stirred again, thunder rumbling.

"Look, Alexander," I said. "You'll need us soon. You'll wish you never handed us over to the Corporation. You'll want all the backup you can get. You'll want us where you're going, no matter what we're doing. Look out!"

There was a flock of huge black birds descending on us. Most of their feathers were missing, and what was left was ragged and bloody. Their beaks and talons were bloodstained, also. They descended on us in the mad frenzy of the infected, uttering hoarse shrieks. The storm picked up again. This time, its fury wasn't exhilarating, it was terrifying.

"Fly!" I screamed, but the wind had already caught Simon's wings and whipped him into the air.

Someone shot at a bird. It fell, blood fountaining everywhere. Ashlee leapt out of the truck, locking the doors and firing madly at the birds.

"Run!" I screamed. "You can't fight!"

"You can run ... but you can't hide," said Alexander quietly. A wave of sorrow intensified washed off of him. He had done anything, ruthless and cold, not caring about the means to an end. It was hard to read his intentions; but that one emotion he let escape gave me a startling insight in to who and what he was. His sorrow twisted into something bitter, like grief, and then into something ugly, rage, hate, the need for vengeance. But this cold, black, foul mood was inhuman.

It was the work of the infection.

A bird dived, pecking at my face.

I reached up, grabbed its neck, and squeezed.

The bird lay dead at my feet.

Then and there, in the middle of the chaos, I was enlightened, in a terrible, cold way. I could feel the heart of the world beating, a staccato, irregular rhythm. It hurt just to feel it.

And I felt a little bit of who Alexander was, what had driven him to what he was, what had sent him to the edge, and what had brought him back. Some might say he'd never returned. But no one could learn to know him that well. He wouldn't let them. He couldn't.

I heard a hissing behind me. I spun, and was smacked in the face by one of Niamh's wings. There was a flurry as she tried to get around her wings, and for a moment it looked as though my head was surrounded in a cloud of flapping feathers. Then, with a strange mewling sound, she grabbed hold of me, hanging off my shoulder. I picked her up, wrapped her in her big white wings, and laid her in the truck.

Something heavy landed against me. I flipped backward, pinning it.

"Oi!"

"Ashlee! Sorry!" I said, rolling off of her.

At that moment, a cry of rage came from the sky, and a shape descended on the flock of infected birds. It seemed to be partially of human shape, but there were elements of the bird in it as well. Its multi-colored wings were spread in flight, and it was clearly on the attack. In its left hand it held a sphere filled with an azure fire that seemed bright enough to consume entire worlds, in its right it held a sword whose double blade appeared to be composed of the flames of fury themselves. The shape dove on the infected birds and cut a wide swath through them. It rose, turned, and dove again, once again taking out several dozen zombie birds. It rose, turned, and dove, rose, turned, and dove, again and again, each time loosing its cry, a cry that seemed to contain all the fury of a dying world striking out at its killers. There was no sanity in that cry. In it, there was only primal rage, the need to rend, to kill, to destroy. The shape swooped again, its weapon slicing through another section of the infected flock. I saw it clearly then. It was a variation on a form I had seen many times in half forgotten dreams. Its skin was a dark golden hew, its wings of many colors. Its eyes, however, contained no soul, only primal instinct. As a crack of thunder came from overhead, it looked up from its next intended target, its eyes reflecting the lightning, and for just a moment, I saw an informing intelligence enter them. It looked directly into my eyes for a moment, and seemed to recognize me, then it returned to the attack, reducing the last of the infected birds to bloody chunks.

And then everything went up in a white flash of light.


	3. Chapter 3 Iyana's Tale 2

Every inch of my body was sore. I tried to roll over, and instantly regretted it. I groaned and tried to open my eyes. I couldn't.

"Where am I?" My voice sounded distant and unfamiliar to my ears. My mouth was unresponsive and somewhat numb, and for some reason to speak was difficult and I had to slowly shape every word, remembering it in my mind, and there was a heavy, chemical taste on my tongue.

I tried to sit up, but I was weak, my body was clumsy, stiff, numb-ish, slow, unresponsive, and unfamiliar, my eyes couldn't open, I was disoriented, and quite suddenly, the world tried to swing sideways! Startled, head reeling, I fell backward and hit the hard, prickly surface I was on rather hard. I regretted that, too.

I felt something large and feathery caress my face.

"Can't open my eyes. What time is it? Where am I?" I said. I sounded slurred. Thinking was like speaking too; I had to remember how.

The feathers surrounded me for a moment, warm and soothing and soft. "Can you remember anything?"

It was Simon!

"I ... think." I struggled to remember the moments before I blacked out ... there was a bright light ... and birds ... and ... and ... Trying to remember just made my mind slower and more difficult.

The warm wings drew me in. "Think."

I began to piece together the events just before the bright light. After the flight, everything had been wiped clean.

"Feathery," I said.

"Yay." There was a rustle, and the feathers moved and fluttered all around me. A hand touched my face. "Open your eyes."

"Can't."

"Try."

I pried my eyes open. It was a good thing part of Simon's wing was covering the brilliant sunlight. It still hurt, though.

"Bright light!"

The wing descended further, obscuring the light nearly completely.

"Feathers." I rubbed my face against the wing. They contracted around me, and I was completely surrounded in feathers. It was quite dark.

"You're very distracting," said Simon, much closer than before.

"Am I?" I said innocently, and moved closer.

"Quit it," he said, playfully pushing me back and flicking his wings.

"What happened?"

"We're in another dimension," he said. "Look what Ashlee and I found. Oh, wait. You can't move."

"No shit."

He and Ashlee helped me out to the beach, where they sat me down in the sun. The planet was pristine and beautiful. I had never felt, let alone seen, such a beautiful place.

Something gold streaked out of the sky. Something that hadn't been there a moment before! It dove for my face.

"Calm down," said Simon, lifting a hand. "We've got her to trust us. We haven't been able to bond with her though, she's too old."

I watched the tiny, hovering creature. She was beautiful, like a miniature dragon, and every bit as fierce.

"It's a fire-lizard," said Simon.

"How many times have we had this discussion?" said Ashlee. "It's not a fire-lizard."

"It is a fire-lizard."

"Simon gets his way, always," I said. "Don't argue with him. You should know that, Ashlee."

"It's not a fucking fire-lizard!"

"I beg to differ."

"Oh, shut up. It's a fire-lizard. Two against one."

"I didn't even know this was real," Simon said.

"Apparently so," I said.

"It's not another dimension either, it's Hawaii or something."

"Even if it is, you have to admit to the reality of teleportation," I said.

"Fine." Ashlee threw up her hands. "I give up. It's Pern, and it's a fire-lizard."

The fire-lizard zipped off. We followed her.

We found her hovering above a hollow high on the beach in the midst of the rocks.

"There's eggs in there," said Simon.

I heard a harsh squawk. Startled, I looked up, and saw the huge, vulture-like birds above us. The queen flew up at them, shrieking in fury. They gained altitude for fear of her wicked claws, but didn't fly away.

She circled back down to the nest. A whole fair of the beautiful little creatures materialized, humming loudly.

"It's a nest!" said Ashlee.

My barely returned strength gave out and I almost fell right on it. The queen dove at me, and Simon pulled me back and sat me down, half-lying in the great curve of one of his wings.

I loved Simon's wings. They were so soft and warm, and they had a clean, feathery smell, sort of like new feather boas, scented with something elusive that I couldn't quite put a name to. Playfully, I rubbed my face along the soft, silky feathers.

"Quit it," he said, but I could hear the smile in his voice.

The fire-lizards' humming increased in pitch and volume, came to a crescendo, and,

CRACK!

The first egg fell open. A little green fell out. Others fell open. Bronzes, blues, and browns came out. They were so funny-looking as they struggled to get around their clumsy, still-wet wings.

Somewhat set apart from the others was a larger egg. My attention was drawn to it as it rocked. It cracked neatly, and out stepped a little gold hatchling, its wings dragging.

The great ugly vulture-birds had dived in for the kill. Some of the fair defended the queen's hatchlings spectacularly, while the others grabbed food for the hatchlings and dragged it to the nest.

"Do you have food?" I asked. "There's no way they'll save them all."

"I've got our packs," said Ashlee.

I felt something nudge my elbow. I looked down. The little gold was standing beside my arm. Tentatively, I reached out a hand. She gobbled the morsel I held, and keened piteously for more.

Simon was holding a bronze and Ashlee was holding the first little green and a brown. She was feeding them from her hands. The little hatchlings devoured food so quickly it looked like they inhaled it.

The little queen crawled up on to Simon's wing. Involuntarily, a tremor ran through it, ruffling the feathers and scaring the little queen. I picked her up in the crook of one arm, feeding her with the other hand.

I looked up. Great shadows fell over the nest. The birds were coming.

The little queen, noticing where I was looking, started crying in distress. I turned her head away, stroking her. She crawled into a fold of Simon's wing and curled up against me. I stroked her little head and tried to calm her, but she was too distressed and unable to fly. I picked her up and cradled her in my arms.

Simon's bronze was equally as distressed. I laid the little queen in the curve of Simon's wing and tried to stand. The world swung sideways again. I felt so light for a moment that I gasped; barely aware I was standing, and collapsed again on legs that felt like water. I cursed inventively and tried again.

A wing dragged me back down. "You can't do anything. We can't save all of them."

I struggled futilely under the wing, but I was so weak I didn't even give him any trouble. What had happened to all my strength? I was barely stronger than a sick, hungry little child.

The little queen poked my face. I reached up to pet her head. She curled up beside my face and looked up at me questioningly.

"He's got us trapped," I told her. She seemed to understand. She stood up and pushed at the wing with one of her sharp little talons.

"Oi! Get her to quit it!" The wing rustled and stirred and lost a few feathers in my face.

I spat feathers. "Quit it yourself!"

The wing promptly withdrew. The queen chirped smugly.

I examined the spot she'd picked at. "It's not bleeding. It's just one, single, feather, that came off."

"I don't believe it." He furled the mass of wing and examined it himself.

"Didn't I once say how sensitive wings were?" With a feather-light touch, I ran a hand teasingly down the wing.

"Quit it."

"We better move," said Ashlee. All the fire-lizards that remained rose into the air and disappeared, that is, all but one. I briefly wondered what would happen to that one, but at the next second, a golden shape streaked out of the sky, so quickly I couldn't make it out, accept for certain details that made me think of the primal thing at the Canadian border, and was gone, taking the fire lizard with it and leaving behind several dozen dead birds that looked as if they had been run through a shredder.

The little queen tested her wings, fluttering into the air. Quickly, the other three fire-lizards joined her.

"They're not going away, are they?" said Ashlee.

"No," I said. I didn't know Ashlee was capable of Impression, let alone of two fire-lizards.

That night, as we sat around the fire Ashlee had built, and the little queen, whom I had named Inaela, was asleep in my lap, I asked, "Where did Niamh go?"

There was a silence.

Then Ashlee slowly, reluctantly put something heavy and white in my lap.

I realized the white was feathers. I smoothed back the wings. Underneath, Niamh's face was cold and pale. I could smell her life, but...

"Simon? Is she alive?"

"No," he said hollowly.

I could smell it, though! Then I remembered that Simon sensed a soul, not living blood.

Niamh's soul was gone.

I felt something stirring behind me, big feet padding softly through the sand.

A hand touched my arm. I looked down to see folded brown skin, long, nimble fingers, gentle and slender.

I looked up to the owner of that hand. He was a little over three feet tall. He was round, his skin an earthy green-brown, his round body low to the ground, large feet spread like a bird's. His large, triangular head with its flat face swiveled, surveying the scene before him. He had large, round, faceted eyes. They were large and unblinking, still and serene, like moonlit pools. They were a blue so rich that you could drown in it, if he caught you with those eyes.

He hummed deep in his throat. I felt his awareness brush mine. He was positively ancient! He had to be millions of years old.

I am a Miriana. The words that were not words came into my mind as concepts I had to interpret. You may call me l'Marilin.

He reached out one nimble, capable, long-fingered hand, wiping the hair back from Niamh's still face. One of his fingers was tipped with blue, and there was some gold marking on his palm.

His big eyes, the color moonlight would be if it were blue, grew sorrowful. Looking into those eyes, I saw shimmers swimming, so full of rainbows, flickering behind the beautiful blue.

Her soul is gone.

"Can you call it back?"

Possibly. I cannot be certain. He shut his eyes, placing one hand on either side of Niamh's face.

The blue tip, somewhere in her thick black curls, began to glow. I could see the gold marking glowing softly, and I realized it was a seven-pointed star.

I felt a ripple of ancient energy along my senses.

"Shouldn't you be conserving energy?" I asked.

No answer. He was so focused that he wouldn't hear you if you screamed in his ear. Eyes half-shut, face screwed up in intent concentration, he was somewhere else, and it wasn't here. It most likely wasn't even on this planet.

I heard a psychic scream and energy flung itself outward with such force that if I were standing it would have thrown me backward. As it was, I skidded back a few inches, and poor Marilin was tossed nearly down to the shore.

He didn't get up. In fact, he seemed limp and completely motionless and very pale.

Gently, I gave Niamh to Simon and approached Marilin.

"Marilin?"

Nothing.

Marilin!

Slowly, very, very slowly, he rolled over and struggled to sit up. He was ashen and trembling.

I knelt by him and took one of his cold, weak hands.

He was wrapped in shields so strong that there was no getting through them.

I picked him up and carried him back up to the fire.

"I can't get through his shields without hurting him," I told Simon. "You'll have to try."

Simon and I knelt on either side of Marilin. Ashlee held Niamh and watched from the other side of the fire. Inaela flew down and sat on my shoulder, wrapping her tail around my neck. Simon's bronze imitated her.

Simon simply shut his eyes. I closed my eyes, and saw what he was sensing.

There was a cage of glowing bars around Marilin.

A sliver of energy slid in between two bars, and expanded. The bars slowly pushed back.

The bars cracked in half. Hastily, Simon extended our shields to cover Marilin.

Then he got to work.

Marilin's energies were a mess of misalignments, the levels at dangerous lows. But before we could replenish his energies, we had to stabilize them.

Mirianas are different.

Yes, I know.

They have more of an intricate melody. No, no! Lower notes! Lower notes! I said. Slower! Slower! Mirianas live much slower than we do, brilliant. Adjust! You were one once! Come with me! I pulled at him mentally, and led him back, into the past.

I brought the melody forth and wrapped it around Marilin's energies, slowly realigning them.

We'll never fix him completely, I said. But he has no way back.

Marilin seemed to reject all the energy we gave him.

Should we wake him up?

He shouldn't be in any pain anymore, at least, not enough to make him totally incoherent, I said.

Simon woke him up.

Marilin stirred weakly. Briefly, his face twisted, and he lay still again.

Don't break what we've already fixed. I tried to imitate the Miriana thought-form, but I knew I was poor at it.

We need you to open up, Simon said. We need to give you energy.

You can't. His thought was faint.

I think your own grandson could help you, said Simon.

Cianan! It has been...

Five thousand years, aen-da'Lylh.

Slowly, I felt Marilin's resistance fade. When he was stronger, he asked, How did you survive?

The secret has been lost, said Simon. All I know is that it still works.

"Come nearer the fire," I said. "It's getting colder. It's near winter."

With our assistance, he moved nearer the fire. Sitting close, wrapped in his blanket, he looked small and vulnerable.

No Miriana can go without being attacked by some of the more vicious human infections, even a Miriana soul in a human body. We seem to attract bad luck. His big eyes looked sorrowful.

Vicious human infections. I shuddered. I had bad memories dealing directly with more than one vicious infection, and more than once for all of them. Yes, I say all. More than two. More like, four or five.

That explains everything, I said to Marilin.

But you have done what no Miriana soul has ever done, and withstood all of them. Multiple times. Against the odds, purposely infected by the most devastating plague to hit your homeworld, you survived, again. More than that, you mutated the plague. You've overcome the one thing no human ever, ever survived unscathed. Both of you have.

Simon started to say something, but Marilin continued. Yes, both of you.

"I didn't want to tell you," I said to Simon. "It's bad enough knowing you're contaminated. Dangerous, even. I guess I wanted to spare you that."

No one should be what I am, I thought, feeling the achingly cold emptiness inside more than ever. I was used to it now, but it came back with a burning, empty intensity, that feeling of being exposed, hollow, and fragile, yet dangerous, abnormal in every way.

Marilin looked at me sympathetically. I could feel the gentle, reassuring touch of his ancient awareness. It was like being enveloped by a warm light with a reassuringly steady pulse at its center. I noted that though the rhythm was steady, it was still too weak for my peace of mind.

Ashlee had been listening quietly, until now.

"What do you mean infections?" she asked, looking directly at both me and Simon.

"When I was ten," I answered after a moment's thought, "I came down with an undiagnosable disease. They figured that it was an infection, but they couldn't name it. I was sick for three months."

"What did you mean about multiple infections?" Ashlee inquired, not wanting to let the subject go yet.

"It came back," I said. "When I was fifteen, it came back. When I was eighteen, it came back. When I was pregnant with Niamh, it came back again, and nearly killed her. They attributed her heart problems to early exposure to the infection. I had nerve damage for ten years after its initial onset. As time progressed, it steadily grew worse. When I was seventeen, the process quite suddenly and drastically sped up."

"Your weakness," Ashlee said. "The times when you couldn't move at all because your body wouldn't respond. What about Simon though? You've explained how you got it but how'd they implant it into him?"

"That remains to be found out," I said. "There are several possible explanations, one of which we both witnessed."

"The airplane crash. You mean that was staged?" Ashlee erupted.

"Oh, yes," Simon said bitterly. "Apparently, they're not above taking innocent lives."

"What was surprising was that only one girl died," I said bitterly, "though Simon was among the more seriously injured in that crash."

"Purposely designed, I'm sure," Simon contributed.

"I have a feeling, though," I broke in, "that that was only to check up on it. He'd already been infected, and long before the crash."

We didn't get a chance to answer, however, for at that moment, Marilin cocked his head and hushed all of us.

They come. Come near.

Simon, Ashlee, Niamh, and I drew closer around Marilin. We gathered our things and made a circle, holding hands, with Simon and I on either side of Marilin and Ashlee across from him, Niamh trapped against her.

Sure you can do this? I asked him.

I better be able to.

And then we moved.

Again, Marilin collapsed, white and cold. I caught him before he could fall.

We were outside of the truck again. He must have picked the image up from my mind. Carefully, I wrapped him in my coat and pushed him into the truck before anyone could see much of him.

"What is a Miriana doing here?"

It was Alexander. He had crept up on me so quietly I hadn't even known he was there.

"No time. If you have sense, you'll let us through, because by God, come Hell or high water, we are getting through. The Corporation can kiss my ass."

"We can't let that thing in! We couldn't do anything about the other one, but we can't let that one in!"

I looked up. Standing before me was a tall, skeletal man with a familiar face. Beside him was another, a few inches taller and more powerfully built. His face looked like it was carved out of heavy, weathered stone. It was a heavy, square face, with high cheekbones and dark gem eyes sitting over the sharp, angular plane of his cheeks, harshly angled round the sides. His nose was hawklike, his teeth glittering white in his darkly tanned, weathered face. He emanated an aura of authority and power, and darkness.

"This is Allen," said Daniel, noting where my gaze went.

Allen looked down from his imposing height, easily a foot and a half taller than me, and smiled. I didn't like the cold I sensed in his piercing gaze.

"Give me the creature, or not only will you not go to the Corporation, you won't get through at all. And you won't be talking either, unless you're indestructible."

I took Simon's hand. He didn't know how to summon the cold, so I summoned it for him. I felt the current jolt through the both of us, like electricity.

I looked toward Allen. I focused my sharpened awareness on his mind.

His name was Allen Darric.

Then something repelled my mind with such force that I staggered backward. I felt a momentary pain in my throat, as if I had swallowed something sharp, and then I knew. Simon caught me and pulled me into the protective circle of his arms. I was too stunned for a moment to realize what had happened.

"What did you do?" The full force of the abyss was behind his voice, directed at Allen. I must admit, it was far more impressive than the cold in my own voice would be, the words themselves heavy stones of power.

I felt an arc of icy, electric fire run on my skin.

Suddenly, I felt two energies warring within me. I recognized the Essence, as I had when I was fifteen, eight years ago in another world.

"The Essence!" I cried. And then the Essence's power took me, and spoke through me with a cold, clear voice like a lance of bright, concentrated silver light that was not my voice. It was the whisper that could be heard above a tumult, the whisper that could stop the fighting of blood enemies, the quiet presence that you could simply feel with a depth transcending the insanity of any mortal feud or raging war. The Voice, the Essence, had stopped wars that had caused Great Discords. It was the Voice of Ages; the Hand of the Essence, and few could speak with it and have their sanity remain intact. I was a Miriana soul. The question was, would the human mind I'd grown up with survive?

The Hand of the Essence and the Voice of Ages, essentially two aspects of the one, have rarely worked through anyone in my sixteen million years of life. In fact it was only once, and that was when Alai the Miriana, then nearly Seventy million, used it to imprison the only Miriana to ever go rogue... Alundar. He'd used discord to immortalize himself two million years ago into a cursed half-life, splitting his essence into two aspects. He had been born into a human form in another world, had killed his human Mother, and was stripped of his human body, after which, chaos and the final crash came to that world. Alai, with the help of the Essence, imprisoned his twisted soul, or rather one aspect of it in the great tower in the Middle Worlds. Her body died in doing so, but the Essence smiled on her and truly immortalized her soul, weaving itself into her timeless awareness. Now Alai represented the Essence when it speaks to people, but when it speaks through...

"The power of Gulyan Alundar can not break that which the Essence shines upon, dark one." I tried to stop the words. Alundar's true-name! No! I trembled as I added my own energies to the fight. I, with the power to use the Essence as Jedi use the Force, was swept aside. The Essence's power was amazing, so vastly more infinite than myself. For the first time in seven or eight years, I felt insignificant.

Allen moved forward, gem eyes flashing. The Essence signaled me. Do not fear.

"Who dares speak the Name?" His voice was a mockery of a voice, twisted and distorted, cold and icy as a knife of a star's wrath. You do not want to invoke the stars' wrath. None could survive it. But though it could be likened to that, Allen's voice could never be the melodious, resounding voice of a star.

In that second, that moment, I knew the burning intensity of hate. I hated Allen Darric. I hated Alundar, who used Allen as a mask. Alundar, whose dark other aspect roamed from world to world, universe to universe, bringing destruction wherever it went.

"I hate you, Gulyan," I said in my own voice. I felt the air rock with discord, the earth at my feet tremble and take a fearful breath, like the deep breath before the plunge. "I despise you, Gulyan."

He hissed and started forward. I broke free of Simon, Essence strength burning in my veins like a wild, exhilarating joy.

Suddenly, I spoke again, and some of the words were in the language of Miria, while others were in a language I didn't know, "High Speech," but the translation, "white over red," came to me at once, as if fed to me from somewhere else.

"Aya mil lenn! Cam-a-cam-mal, Pria-toi, Gan Delah!" I lifted both my hands and Allen screamed. I sensed that those words had hurt him, as if there was power in them, power against Alundar. Had I only known then that those words had been spoken to him long ago in another world by one who had been the agent of his humiliation, the one who had stripped him of his human form. Suddenly a burst, a roiling whirlpool, of energy enveloped my body, twisting, twining, whirling with me. It centered on my hands.

The skin burst on my palms. Blood ran down my arms. I had never seen blood glow like that, with such a bright, ruby light.

Fire etched itself into my hands as I stood there. I felt barely more substantial than a thought, an idea, a single perfect chord of sound. Though I was aware of the searing pain as my body rebuilt itself, shifting in deep places. I wanted to cry out and think I did, but the energy burning was so glorious, so bright, so brilliant, so joyful, it brought tears to my eyes. The pain was swept away into insignificance.

I felt gentle hands pulling me down. I practically fell, and thin arms caught me, pushing me into a sitting position, taking my bleeding hands in large, gentle, soothing ones. It was then that I realized my body was racked with pain, the transformation was too much, and I was going to die.

I coughed, choking up something tasting metallic and horribly like blood. I felt the large, warm, soothing hands on my burning face, sending cool tendrils of warmth into my body.

I found that I was shaking and crying uncontrollably. I coughed blood, and it mixed with my salty tears. I felt so fragile and frail.

I felt the arms around me again, and a deep, calm hush fell over my overwhelmed mind, and a voice whispered into a place within me so deep that no one should be able to touch it. Sleep ... sleep. And the delicate arms moved away and the hands fluttered over my face, inscribing signals so ancient their origins could not be traced, commanding the healing powers.

Bless you, Marilin, Light bless you. That was my last thought, as I slipped away.

Once again, my sleep was haunted by what were more visions than dreams, and as this one progressed, one word began chiming over and over again in my mind. "Resistance." The people I was being shown would somehow finish up resisting the Corporation, but how?

This time, the person I was shown, being allowed, for a time, to live through, was a young woman. From the first, I sensed something in her mind, something wrong. In a way, she was like me, but at the same time unlike.

Gina cocked the Beretta's hammer with a blistered thumb and winced in pain. The powder burns mixed with the fluid under the freshly broken skin. "Die you fucker," she rasped at the last approaching dead thing, a fat teenager wearing a stained rock concert t-shirt. His greasy scalp flew off his skull and landed on a pile of stinking carcasses behind him before his own body joined in the stack of rotting flesh. Her slide locked to the rear after ejecting the magazine's last casing. She couldn't have done that better if she were paid.

Gina wiped her forehead with the sling for her broken right arm. More pain lanced across her brain as she lifted the arm slightly to get some slack in her left hand. She examined the glistening sweat on the pea-green fabric. She needed a shower to rinse the sweat, grime, blood, and sand out of her skin. It had been days since she pampered herself with her own personal hygiene; hell, she could smell her own unclean and not-so-fresh feeling from between her thighs over the rotting flesh that surrounded her. She stunk of them. She shuddered at the thought of anybody touching her again. After dragging all of the bodies outside, she set them ablaze. Finally, she locked the church's double doors and made her way through the entire building to give herself the satisfaction that she was the only prowler in this house of worship. The last time she relaxed and let her guard down, she was almost eaten in her sleep. She wasn't stupid enough nor could she afford to repeat mistakes. Keeping low to avoid silhouetting her lean frame in the stained glass windows, she swept through the sanctuary, checked the pulpit, and rechecked the locks to the doors on both left and right wing closets. Beyond the right wing closet, she took a hidden flight of stairs to a dressing room below. Hidden among the rows of dusty taffeta angel costumes and choir robes lay the last boxes of her only weapon's ammunition. Gina scooped the government-issued brown boxes up with her good arm, placed them in the sling and headed into the kitchen. She had not yet taken a full inventory of the church's wares because of constant undead interruptions. She imagined the refrigerator to be stocked with sugar-free punch and the cabinets full of generic brand decaf and stale Archway cookies. She could afford this break now since she chained all of the entry doors at their crash bars. The church was built in a split-level configuration; meaning only the front and rear entry doors are at ground level. The sanctuary was about fourteen feet above ground, making the windows unreachable from outdoors. The basement was refurbished in the 1950's to double as a fallout shelter in the event the U.S.S.R. launched nukes at the God-fearing heartland of America. There were no basement windows and the walls were lined with asphalt and lead to protect against sound and radiation. For the first time in a month, she felt safe.

She poured the punch into a Styrofoam cup and admired the greenish hue as it swirled and bubbled on the surface. She swallowed and realized how thirsty she was. She was coming down from her latest adrenaline surge and felt the weight of the gun belt biting into her hips. Her chest was heaving from exertion. She finished the last of the punch and walked to the utility room under the basement stairs. She saw a showerhead sticking out of the wall surrounded by cobwebs. She found a decaying cardboard and tin can of powdered soap lying on an old roll top desk near the door. She painfully disrobed.

The water was rusty and putrid for a brief time when it first emerged from the parched showerhead. It sputtered and coughed in protest at the command to come to life. Gina eagerly stepped beneath the surprisingly warm water. She tapped a chunk of blue and white soap from the can and pulverized it in her hand. The water made a paste with the soap as she rubbed the grainy mix across her waist and breasts. She allowed her mind to relax and remember a happier time.

She could still smell the flowers.

Lilac and tulip aroma filled the air while they made love under clear skies. The pond reflected the colors of late spring. The emerald grass mixed with the blue heaven above. The red, purple, orange, and yellow flowers framed his face. The pond - with her spectrum of color - sat like a halo of pious radiance around his head. His smile reflected hers on that perfect day.

"I do so much love you."

"Why do you say it that way?"

"Because saying 'I love you' doesn't mean as much when it is repeated as often as people do," he replied with loving sincerity.

Gina allowed herself a moment to weep. The water was going cold. She quickly scrubbed her body, finishing the last bit of the powdered soap that was starting to irritate her fresh layer of skin. It dawned on her that she'd washed herself with scouring powder. She didn't care. Smelling like bleach was better than smelling like them.

She padded across the cold concrete floor to the dressing room and dried herself off with an altar towel. She felt completely invigorated from the shower. 'Quick assessment,' she thought. 'I have three toilets, five sinks, about a year's worth of toilet paper, there are two boxes of military field rations from 1972 in the pantry, and 90 bullets.'

KA-CHINK

Gina dropped the towel and rushed to her pistol and knapsack. There was no time to hesitate and be a weak girl now. That sound was someone or something trying to open the front doors. The chains were securely fastened with a padlock. Nothing can get in by conventional means. The dead aren't smart enough to cut through the door.

She dressed herself in a black choir robe and slid on a pair of cork sandals. She dashed to the kitchen and snatched two long kitchen knives and a paring knife. "I need more bullets," she muttered.

Gina scrambled the steeple stairs in less than a minute. She took measured care to prevent the steeple floor door from creaking and giving away her position. She immediately spotted an old brown Chrysler Cordoba parked neatly in the lot. From her vantage point, she saw the white vinyl upholstered interior with a cluttered backseat. The trunk was open, but she couldn't see inside it. The hatch was in the way.

Gina's blood chilled and thickened in confused shock. There was a hand holding the trunk open! The pink and white flesh disqualified it for membership in the undead horde. The fingertips were too thick to be a woman's. Gina quietly reloaded her pistol and spare magazines while eyeing the intruder. She looked above her head to check her clearance. She would hate to stand up into a bell and be knocked unconscious and allow this man to get the upper hand. She glanced back down as the hand slammed the trunk shut, revealing a good-looking and sturdy middle-aged man wearing blue jeans and a gray flannel shirt with a black turtleneck. He had a rifle in his left hand and knelt to pick up a sledgehammer and a coil of black rope.

Gina ducked her head down to examine her options. Stupid bitch, get your head back up there, she thought and started to bring her head up to watch her opponent. She dropped prone before she realized she had. The man shot at her.

He knows I'm here, she thought immediately. Gina heard a humming ringing sound from above. She looked up and saw a wisp of smoke from the edge of the church bell. The sharp metallic clang had immobilized her briefly, and she realized she was in for a monster headache tonight. That fucker shot at me.

"Knock knock," said the man with calculated volume. He craned his neck and scanned the church windows high above. "Doors are chained on the inside, and there is a smoldering pile of dead people out here. That means you are inside the church and have the upper hand. I won't play games with you. I know you have an advantage. Please let me inside. I am alone out here, but I'll work hard to help you in any way I can. I have ammunition and a strong back. I have a car with a full tank of gas. I could move on, but I just want to rest for a while. You know I could just smash a window and climb in if I wanted to. I respect you this much at least. Isn't that worth something?"

Gina realized he shot the bell for effect and as a display of his abilities. She spied a group of approaching zombies in the trees behind him. Another group of six approached from the west. She could let him handle it on his own with the chance he may die, or she could just pop his head herself and let the dead have their way with him. This would draw a crowd even after the body was devoured. They could damage the car, a means of escape if things went sour.

"God damn it," she whispered and stood up to a half crouch. She estimated twenty yards of safety between him and the first group of lumbering dead. She started for the trap door when she saw him turn and look at the approaching ghouls. He threw his shotgun to the ground and placed his hands on his head.

"What the FUCK is wrong with this asshole?"

She boiled down the steps and ripped the keys off her belt. She was thankful she had rehearsed finding the right key for each lock in the event she needed to make a hasty exit. Gina yanked the lock and chain off and kicked the doors open.

The man made no move for the door. He stood there with his hands on top of his head smiling at Gina. "Thanks a lot. I knew I could trust you."

"You don't even know the half of it shit-for-brains. Get down on your stomach, arms spread," Gina fired back.

The zombies were fifteen feet away from his heels. His jaw dropped. "What?"

"'DOWN', I said!"

The man examined her clothes. "You better be good at what you do, choirgirl," the man snapped as he dropped to the black top.

Gina left a sandal in the doorjamb and dashed at the man. She pressed the arch of her bare foot into the nape of his sweaty neck and took aim with her Berretta. She plugged three ghouls in the eye and fired two shots in the head of another. Out of immediate danger, she shoved her pistol in her armpit and snatched the rifle off the ground before bolting for the door. "Get up and get over here NOW!"

He stood up and calmly removed his keys from his pocket. He walked over to the trunk and opened the lid. Again, the trunk hatch prohibited Gina from seeing what he was doing, so she trained her pistol at him. She glanced sideways at the last group of advancing ghouls.

"No witnesses," the man said loudly. A shot came from behind the car. One of the dead fell just after it crossed into the parking lot from the grass. "I don't want anyone to know what we have got going on here." He lowered his pistol to his side and smiled down at the two blonde women tied-up in his trunk. The younger one's tears smeared her eye makeup across her cheek and beaded on the gray duct tape over her mouth.

"MOVE IT!"

"Sssshh! You are drawing a crowd here. Let me handle this please." The man produced a sledgehammer and a coil of black nylon rope from the compartment and closed the hatch.

The man tossed the rope to Gina before the first zombie clumsily clawed at him. He sarcastically dodged his opponent's attack and returned with a hammer strike to its chest. It fell into the dead burn pile and caught fire. The man dropped the hammer into the zombie's skull, smashing the brains into a flat pile of goop. He made short work of the remaining dead afterwards.

Gina admired the man's strength and fury. It looked as if he enjoyed this new sport more than anyone else on earth. She hadn't realized she relaxed her grip on both weapons as he approached her. She quickly brought the pistol to bear on his chest before he got within ten feet of the door.

"Jesus Christ, what on earth made you such a paranoid woman? Lower your defenses in the face of trust for once, okay? We both know you are as tough as you think, but recognize a friend when you see one."

Gina conceded. "What is your name?"

"Michael Jay Faulkner."

"All three names, huh? Like a serial killer?"

"Aren't we all out on killing sprees? What's yours?"

Gina forgot her arm's condition. She felt the dull throb in her elbow and tightened her sling. "I'm Gina. Just Gina."

Michael nodded at her broken arm and shrugged his shoulders. "Whatever, Gina. I can make you a proper arm cast if you give me the chance. Your arm will heal faster that way."

"Great, I could use another arm these days."

"I hate small talk, Gina. Why don't we drag our remaining bodies to the burn pile and get inside where it's safe?"

Gina didn't have to be told twice. She holstered her pistol and dropped the rifle in the church entryway. She met Michael at the first body and moved the remaining ghouls to the blaze. Exhausted, they moved inside. Gina chained the doors shut and walked downstairs with Michael to the kitchen.

"I guess the time for manners is gone, Gina. What do you have to eat?" Michael was rummaging through the cabinets and found a bag of flour and some newspapers. He withdrew a syringe from a small first aid kit he had in a backpack.

Gina eyed the syringe Michael had in his hand and stepped back. "I haven't looked too much. what the fuck is the needle for, dickhead?" Michael looked momentarily offended, and then smiled broadly, "You have a good sense of humor. I like that. The needle is for the morphine I will need to give you before I redo that terrible bone set job you did. The flour and newspapers is all I have for a cast. Trust me; paper mâché is strong when it dries. We will have to cut through it with a knife in six weeks. If you keep it dry, I won't have to redo the whole thing."

Gina felt uneasy about allowing some strange man dope her up and then work on her broken arm. She feared a misshapen arm even worse. After thinking it over, she decided this was for the best.

"You will feel a slight pinch then a little giddy and sluggish."

The sensation was overwhelmingly relaxing. The background around Michael's head began to swirl into a kaleidoscope of color, and spiraling into a halo around his head. This vision seemed so familiar to her and she didn't know where she saw it before. The morphine was wonderful to her. She didn't even mind the wet popping sound her broken arm made as he manipulated it into the proper shape. She realized she would be in agony if she weren't stoned. She giggled at her arm. She laughed at the dirt under her fingernails and she laughed at Michael. It seemed like forever since she was high.

"You are a really silly girl," Michael said as he shook his head and mixed the flour/water mixture. "Now, don't move your arm. I have to get the cast paper ready."

He cut the newspapers in long strips until he had a large pile that covered the entire table. Gina giggled and grabbed a handful of paper strips and tossed them in the air like confetti. She howled and cooed as the papers fell around her chair. Michael bit his lip to contain his laughter. He put a large blue plastic bowl full of a pale paste mixture in the center of the table and dipped the first newspaper strip in it.

Michael laid the strip around her upper arm, holding the end with his thumb and pressed it together to make a firm bond. "What brought you to this church, Gina? Were you part of a larger group of people and got separated?"

Gina tried to laugh, but stopped short and looked up at Michael. She didn't want to talk about it, but she felt it was time to stop hiding her feelings about her life. She swallowed hard and cleared her throat. "I found this church two days ago after getting separated from my boyfriend. I decided to hide out here and wait for someone to come along. The priest was chewing on a little girl's leg in the basement when I came in. It took me a while to clear this place up, but I did it all on my own."

"How did you break your arm?"

"Escaping from the hospital after it was overrun and all my friends were killed." It must have been the morphine that made her say it. The drugs were making her reveal things she would rather ignore. Her shoes told her to shut up.

Michael must have detected her pain. He looked at her swollen arm and continued to lay the newspaper paste on it. Michael decided to change the subject. "So, you are pretty handy with a gun. Where did you learn to shoot like that?"

"My dad taught me how to shoot. I found the gun on one of them."

The cast was a painstaking and careful process requiring several layers to make a solid and stiff cast to support Gina's broken arm. The morphine began to wane around sunset. Gina knew a rough night lay ahead for her. Her arm was swelling against the cast. She could feel the tacky paste on her skin as it meshed with her tiny forearm hairs.

Gina finally passed out waiting for the cast to dry while Michael made dinner. Michael gently moved Gina to an old army cot in a back room, careful to protect the cast from damages. He ate a bowl of beef stew and examined Gina's pistol. He carefully went through her knapsack. He studied a collection of photographs she had in a manila envelope. He touched her face in each. He happily toured photographs of her skiing trip with her high school buddies, holding a puppy, posing in a prom dress, and kissing a young man in a hospital gown.

Michael dropped the spoon in his bowl, cleaned his mess from the table and took the dishes to the sink. He picked up the photograph and Gina's pistol and walked down the hall to the room where Gina slept. Michael wept silently and leveled the pistol at her head. Gina rolled over and moaned comfortably. He hesitated, wiped his eyes and turned on his heels.

He scooped up the keys as he ran past the dining room table and bolted up the basement stairs to the front door. He lifted the door chain off the bars and quietly stepped outside.

Michael crushed the photograph in his hand and dropped it behind him. He turned sharply to face his car's twilight silhouette. A lone zombie was softly patting at the trunk, hoping to coerce his prey out of their hiding place. Michael's face turned to stone, squeezing the last tear from his eye. He calmly glided across the lot to his car. The zombie stirred and trudged toward the new target. Michael dropped to a crouch and delivered a bone-crushing blow to the zombie's knees. The ghoul's stiff legs shattered, dropping him to the pavement inches from Michael's ankle. The rotting husk was given a series of similar crushing blows to the pelvis, elbows and shoulders. Satisfied he immobilized the creature; Michael stood up and walked to the rear of the vehicle. He yanked the keys out of his pocket and jammed one in the trunk lock.

He glared at his captives. The older one was sleeping despite the scuffle and his intrusion. He reached behind the half-naked woman and snatched her daughter from her painful perch on the dirty spare tire.

The girl yelped and whimpered as Michael stood her up. He quickly slammed the trunk hatch down when the girl's mother woke and joined her daughter in the puppy-like howl.

Michael placed his hand over the teenager's taped mouth and stroked her greasy hair. "Shh," he whispered soothingly, "we mustn't get mother upset."

Michael stepped over the downed ghoul and pulled the girl towards the church door. He sat her down on a nearby bench, knelt down and palmed the picture. He took great care to keep his hand hidden in the shadows.

Michael assumed a proposal-like pose and placed his other hand on the girl's knee. "Look, we just met, and I know this is sudden, but will you marry me?"

The girl cried.

"Hey, hey, hey. I know how you girls get about this stuff. I'm sorry I don't have a ring, but I promise I'll get a good job and earn your ring. What do you say?"

The girl began to hyperventilate and shudder. Michael stood up and pulled the tape from her mouth. He imagined the quick shock of pain that streaked across her smooth skin. He quickly knelt down to resume his previous pose before she could speak.

"You sick and crazy fucker," the girl spat at Michael. She gulped and began screaming for help.

Michael punched the girl in the stomach, knocking the wind out of her lungs. She doubled over in pain. Michael stood up and began pacing in front of her.

"I'm not sorry I just did that. How could you do this to me, Gina?"

The girl looked up at her captor, eyes and mouth wide open. Large tears welled in her eyes.

Michael smoothed the picture against his thigh. "You fucking bitch! I swear my love to you and devote my life to yours. I took care of you when I found you that day. You remember the broken arm? Who helped you then? ME! I happen to be cleaning up one day and I find THIS! WHO THE FUCK IS THIS GUY?"

The girl gasped for air.

"That's right, play the shocked victim role. You wear it so well, Gina." He nodded at the crippled zombie. "As you can see, I crush all competition. ANSWER ME!"

She struggled for oxygen and finally summoned the air back into her lungs. She wet her pants. After much stammering she uttered the word "Gina?"

Michael stuffed the picture in the girl's mouth and put the tape back over her lips. "Glad to hear you caught your breath, Gina. Now shut up. I'm tired of hearing your filthy lies."

Michael opened the trunk. "Gina's mother" glared at him in horror and fiercely mumbled. Michael squeezed the young girl's mouth with his hand while he pulled Gina's pistol from his belt in the small of his back.

"Sorry mom, but Gina didn't accept my marriage proposal. I guess I can tell your daughter about us, huh?" He tapped the muzzle of the Beretta against the crotch of the woman's panties that were seated between her knees.

Michael unfastened the teenager's pants and pointed the pistol against her kidney. "Hey, you're eighteen now. You don't need your mommy's consent to get married, or have sex, Gina. See, I'll show you how easy it is to tell your mother that you are all grown up."

The woman lay helplessly wide-eyed in the trunk inches away from her child, and blinked a tear loose when Michael shot her daughter and had his way while she silently convulsed and jerked in the throes of death.

Michael tossed the girl back into the trunk to join her mother. "Sorry, I don't have the strength to go again. I'm not as young as I used to be. Perhaps we can get together later? Check your date book." He closed the trunk hatch and walked back to the church.

Gina awoke to the aroma of oatmeal and bacon. A bouquet of fresh flowers sat in a blue glass vase on a paper tablecloth thrown over a box near her bed. She sat up and admired the wildflower arrangement for a moment. She noticed her cast was dry and hard; it had solidified in a right angle, just the way it was designed. Her arm felt supported and comforted. The pain was quite dull now, and throbbed only slightly. She estimated she would feel much better by midday. She reached across her body with her left hand to find the button to call for her nurse. She was hungry and was ready for that wonderful breakfast she was detecting down the hall that was probably being delivered to that bitch, Jessica Squall.

She forgot she wasn't in the hospital room anymore. She was in a church with an older man named Michael who was in the kitchen making breakfast. Michael, the guy who reset her arm and carefully built a cast for it.

Gina looked around the room, wondering what time it was. She was still in the black choir robe from last night. She felt silly in the large black sheet. She found the sandals she borrowed neatly tucked beneath the folding army cot beneath her and walked out of the room and down the hall to the kitchen.

"Good morning, Gina," Michael said with a smile. He was leaning against the kitchen sink and drinking a glass of orange juice. "How did you sleep?"

"Hello and good morning," Gina replied with a forced smile. She was still a little groggy from the morphine. She didn't want to seem ungrateful or moody after all he had done.

Michael gestured to a table setting complete with another glass of orange juice. The bacon sat neatly on the plate, slightly blackened. "I have your eggs cooking right now. I'm sorry they aren't done yet, but please, dig in."

Gina quickly sat in the folding chair at the end of the portable table. Michael moved in behind and helped slide her forward. He was careful to set the silverware on the left side of the plate for her. Gina smiled at his attention to detail and greedily devoured the bacon. Michael laid a napkin across her lap for her, an antiquated gesture that took Gina by surprise for a moment. Michael smiled and returned to the stove.

"Where did you get the bacon and eggs, Michael?"

"I went out last night and did some bartering. I checked in on you once to make sure you were okay, and then I headed down to Lakeville. That town is deserted. Only a few dead still walked the street. I knew of a mom-and-pop grocery store down there, so I took my chances. The place had been looted for beer and candy, but still had some frozen foods and fresh eggs."

Gina considered the prospect of moving to Lakeville and occupying a farmhouse there. The comforts of a king-size bed and a huge bathtub sounded inviting, but dismissed the idea after a moment. There were too many windows they would need to board up. In addition, there were rumors of scavengers that travel in gangs. She knew she had a tactical advantage over the dead if she stayed in the church. A gang of cutthroats or some psychopath would have to try pretty hard to get inside it too. She figured with Michael there to help, she could handle any attack with ease.

"Michael, thank you for all you have done."

"You are quite welcome. I'm just happy I got lost out here in the middle of nowhere and found this church."

Gina felt the blood rush out of her face. Her feet turned to lead and her stomach plummeted. She realized Michael was lying.

"Everything alright?" Michael asked. He must have been watching her eat. He scraped a pile of eggs onto her plate.

She ordered herself to make small talk to keep up the charade of ignorance. "I just realized it has been a very long time since I have eaten bacon and eggs. I'm just grateful you came along."

Michael humbly smiled and blushed. He walked over to the sink and began washing the dishes.

Gina continued with her conversation. She needed to find out what he was up to. She began scanning the room for the whereabouts of her pistol or any firearm for that matter. "So, how long have you been on your own, Michael?"

"Since the day it all started. I lost my job at the mill in Elkhart the day before, so I decided to go on a tour of America. I was making my way hitchhiking and camping along I-70. I must have been somewhere near Terre Haute when I saw the first attacks. I was lucky enough to get picked-up by a woman and her daughter. That's how I got the car.

"Where are they?" She was almost afraid to ask.

"I left them at a rescue station a few days ago. I knew the National Guard would be there to uphold martial law, so I left them in good hands. She gave me permission to borrow her car. I didn't steal it. They seemed happy to finally be someplace where they didn't have to run anymore. They probably wouldn't have lasted as long as they did if it weren't for me. They had no weapons and no food. Quite frankly, they were parasites. I'm glad to have them behind me now when I travel," he made a hitchhiker gesture over his shoulder, thumb pointing behind him while he spoke.

"That bad, huh?" Gina was terrified. She didn't have the keys to get outside if she needed to. Did he know she caught his ruse? Knows Lakeville, yet got lost in the middle of nowhere?

"You have no idea how much of an annoyance they became."

Gina finished her breakfast, careful to eat everything. She wiped her mouth and collected her utensils. The throbbing in her arm started to quicken. She started to get up when Michael turned around. He floated across the kitchen and helped her up.

"Please leave everything, Gina. I'll tidy up for you. Why don't you go take a shower and change clothes? We could use a bit of entertainment around here. Are there any books or a television?"

"Only bibles and hymnals from what I saw." I think this is one of those churches that believe radio and television is of the devil."

"I will probably need to make a road trip for supplies today. Better to do it when we have plenty than when we are desperate."

"Just you? Don't you need help?"

"You have a broken arm. Someone has to stay here and protect the place, and somebody has to go out for supplies."

Gina left Michael in the kitchen and went upstairs to the sanctuary. She took great care to walk upstairs with heavy and deliberate steps. Once there, she quickly darted up the middle and took the hidden flight of stairs down to the dressing room. She crept between the costumes and laid on the floor. She lifted her head and pulled herself across the dusty floorboards to the curtain that separated the room from the dining area attached to the kitchen. The narrow view through a gap in the velvet folds was just enough to watch Michael. He was cleaning the stove and cutting board. He stepped out of sight for a moment. She heard his footsteps fade. Gina worried he may be looking for her. She pulled herself up to her knees to break for the stairs.

Michael reappeared with a large garbage bag. He emptied the short kitchen can into it and sat it up on the counter. He rubbed his nose with his thumb and continued cleaning.

Gina saw blood smeared across his nose. He had blood on his hands from something. She considered the possibility of a cut on his hand, but dismissed it. The blood was dark red and semi-coagulated. Michael was far too fastidious to bleed that severely without his first aid kit.

He pulled Gina's pistol out of the garbage bag and placed it on the countertop. He removed the magazine and cleared the bullet out of the chamber. He rinsed the pistol off under the tap and dried it with paper towels. More blood transferred to the towels. He tossed the rest of the roll in the trash along with the bloody ones. He wiped the countertop down one last time and picked up the bag. Gina heard the scraping of keys against wood and realized he had the keys ten feet from her while she ate. He left the kitchen and looked in the utility room. He turned around and dropped the bag by the door.

"Gina, aren't you going to take a shower?" He shouted upstairs with his back turned to the stairwell. He waited for an answer; when he didn't receive one he spun around, glanced down at the bag, and walked to the landing.

Gina rushed up the concrete steps to the sanctuary, dashed past the pulpit, and knelt at the altar. She bowed her head just before Michael walked in.

She heard him sit down in one of the back pews. The wooden bench creaked under the load of his sturdy frame. He was waiting for her to finish praying.

'What a gentleman,' she thought. She lifted her head and opened her eyes. She blinked at Michael.

He raised his hands in surrender-like gesture. "I hope I didn't disturb you and God," he asked from across the room. He raised his voice only slightly so she might hear him from the back. He made no move toward her.

"No, we just finished," she returned with a smile. She was terrified beyond belief.

"Well, I was wondering if you were going to shower right now. I want to go out soon so I have the day to search for supplies."

She stood up and walked to him. "Well, would you like to take a shower first? I don't mind waiting." She was hoping for a break. Get the gun. Shoot him in the back of the head while he showers.

Michael cocked his head sideways and looked her up and down. He stared at her choir robe. He shook his head and stood up. "No, that's okay," he answered. "By the look of things, you need it worse than I do. That robe is dusty and you are sweating."

Gina looked down, horrified at her mistake. She dragged herself across the floor. The entire front of her robe was covered in years of dust; her hands were smeared with dust and sweat. A few small wooden splinters were sticking out of the robe near her knees.

"Where did you go?"

"I tripped in the back closet when I was looking for some more soap," Gina answered. Lies were easier to conjure now since she was admitted to the hospital. She walked down the steps. Better for her to play it off as if it were nothing than to stand there and allow him to examine her further. Damn, you're stupid. He is going to see right through your lie.

"I found some soap under the counter. It isn't body wash, but it will clean you up. I put it near the shower. Go ahead and take one."

Gina passed the garbage bag and spied her pistol and bullets fifteen feet away. She almost went for it when Michael emerged from the stairwell. She averted her eyes and stepped over the garbage bag as if it weren't there. She turned around and looked at Michael. "A little privacy, please?" She asked with a playful grin as she waved him away.

Michael's jaw dropped in shock and he blushed again. "Oh, I'm sorry," he said apologetically. He reached down and snatched the garbage bag. "I'll just take out the," he stammered.

"Trash?" She offered with a smile, whilst at the same time thinking, "Clumsy bitch. You'll probably miss the first shot. Squeeze off two."

"Yeah," he said in schoolboy-with-a-crush tenor.

She shut the door and dropped to her knees. She saw him walk away with the garbage through the keyhole and heard him walk up the steps that were over the room she was in. She disrobed and wrapped her arm in a plastic bag he thoughtfully laid out for her. She quickly showered, hardly noticing the water was now clear from the start.

While she dried off, she heard Michael walk downstairs. She found a pile of her clothes folded neater than she would have done on the roll top desk. He had been through her things.

She dressed herself in the dim light and exited the room. Michael was seated in the dining area, waiting expectantly for her. He was holding her pistol in his lap. His rifle was leaning against his thigh. She almost froze at the sight, but forced herself to walk towards him. She didn't want to tip her hand now.

"Well, I checked over your gun and other supplies. You should be all right until I get back. I don't think you'll need your pistol, but you never know."

She held out her hand for her pistol. She fought the urge to shoot him after he gave it to her. Damn! Kill him! Take it from him and blow his dick off! She calmly inspected the magazine and chamber. He hadn't chambered a round, and she didn't want to alarm him by racking the slide. She had to make him believe she was perfectly comfortable with his leaving her alone, and could handle herself in a crisis.

Michael and Gina walked upstairs to the front door again. Gina listened at the door for any undead stalking about. When she was satisfied, she motioned for Michael to unlock the door.

Michael opened the door and tossed the keys to Gina. He winked and let a sly grin cross his lips. "Be back tonight, hopefully with some usable supplies. Be ready for me. Don't make too much racket to attract the dead."

She returned the grin and locked the door. Too easy, maybe he knows something is up, she thought.

Gina rushed up the steeple stairs to the bell tower. She realized there she didn't have a chance against Michael in a physical contest even if her arm wasn't broken. She would have to outthink him and kill him quickly. Despite his hospitality and gentle nature, she detected something far more sinister lurked beneath his clean-cut image. True, she lived in a turbulent and bloody age, but something was wrong with the clean-up scene she spied through the curtains.

Gina saw Michael standing below at the Chrysler. He tossed his backpack inside on the long sofa-like front seat. He checked his watch and slid into the car. Gina shot glances to her left and right to watch the horizon. She marveled at the lack of undead stalking about. She pretended for a moment the nightmare was over and dreamt of returning home. Her mind wandered back to the days of her pink-painted bedroom walls and shag carpeting. She smiled at the thought of her kid brother Samuel sitting "crisscross applesauce" on the floor playing Atari in front of the television in the furnished family room basement. She imagined running her hand along the wall in the stairwell where her father hung the shag carpet remnants in a quilt-like fashion to help soundproof the basement. Her father had crazy ideas. Thankfully, Gina's mom ensured her husband kept his home improvement ideas underground.

Her mind shifted against her will. The imaginary wall morphed into a smoother, yet equally soft surface. The air became tinged with the tang of bleach and medicine as it chilled sharply. She was standing in the padded cell of her hospital room again, and the dead were chewing their way through the ward.

The Chrysler thundered to life below her, shocking Gina back to consciousness. She was thankful Michael inadvertently returned her from her daydream-turned-bad. She had considered shooting him before he got into the car, but couldn't bring herself to it. She was still having a hard time merging his unknown dark side with the man who had helped her out since last night. She realized she had to work harder at ignoring everything and killing him before he did something to her. Now you did it, you fucking whore! You are going to get extra punishment for that one! He is going to get you when you least expect it!

Michael drove East to Lakeville.

Gina questioned herself and wondered if she could be wrong about him. She pondered if her own suppressed psychosis had reasserted itself again and conjured a spell of paranoia against a man who had the potential to keep her alive should she lose the ability to do so. The doctors told her parents her mind was dangerous if idle. Gina converted the doctor's prognosis to the modern dilemma and figured when she wasn't under stress or in danger of being eaten her ailment had the potential to act-up. Perhaps Michael's arrival has been more detrimental to the mind than he has been beneficial to her in all other regards?

She shook the possibility away from her mind. She chomped firmly on her lower lip and cursed herself for faults she couldn't control. Her opportunity had lapsed. She would have to wait for Michael's return before she could really be free. Gina checked the skies for an approximation of the time and guessed it to be somewhere around ten. Her belly was full and warm from the breakfast he prepared and she was comfortably dressed in the clothes Michael laid out for her like a faithful butler. She had hours to prepare for his return.

She intended to go downstairs when she spotted another group of zombies lumbering like drunken hobos down the street toward the church. The sound of Michael's huge engine must have acted like a dinner bell to the undead on the fringe of the rural area. She shot the four zombie silhouettes without thinking. She weighed her options afterwards. If she shot the group at a distance before they got too close it may prevent more from approaching. Perhaps they were the only local dead?

The other option terrified her to the core: her gunshots echoed across the land; the sound reaching further than Michael's ancient car did, stirring-up zounds of the hungry and rotting-beckoning them to come and embrace her.

Gina was getting a headache.

June 19.

Last night a gang of zombies chased me and John and Zoë and Clyde out of the Stop-and-Shop while we were filling our pockets with OTC drugs and candy. All of the P-scrip was gone from the bins in the back. The glass was smashed and some doctor zombie was stumbling around looking for his last clue till he saw us near the broken pick-up window. We made it outside but we got surrounded by a bunch of dead guys. The ambulance we stole was on fire. No more painkillers or oxygen. We were about to get bitten when some guy came hauling ass up the road and wiped out the group on the left. We climbed into his car and he took us to a field that smelt like rotted corn. We started talking about the zombies and the best way to kill them. He seemed cool. He didn't mind giving us a ride. Zoë offered to suck his dick for the help. She said he smelled like sex. God I wanted to get high. He told us he had some morphine in the back seat. John was getting stupid about this guy. Said he wasn't cool. I said 'what do you know, he got drugs and weed back here'. John smoked a bowl of hash and passed out behind the car. Stupid move John. I shot up with Zoë and got back in the car. I haven't seen John since. I coulda swore I saw the new guy get some rope and some tent stakes out of the back seat and go back behind the car. I think he pitched a tent. I think he fucked Zoë after that. Maybe I was just high, but I heard thumping in the trunk. He shot a few zombies that got too close. He took me back to the abandoned shelter and said he would be back later with more drugs.

Mark closed his diary, stood up and stretched his arms. He rubbed his forearm sores from where he shot-up the night before with his friends and the strange man. Clyde made a funny face at him and whispered about how stupid he was for doing drugs. Mark flipped him off and walked to the window. He saw a car driving up to the shelter that looked like the one from last night. Clyde again whispered about John and Zoë and expressed his worry about their whereabouts.

"Don't worry about them. They are in love, dude. Shit, you ever love somebody?"

Clyde whispered a name, but Mark cut him off before he could go on.

"Damn, I need some painkillers," Mark shouted and walked out of the filthy janitor closet. He stepped over a heaped-up pile of stinking clothes near the doorway and went to the fire exit stairwell.

Clyde didn't follow Mark. Mark had hoped Clyde went back to sleep so he couldn't fuck any more shit up with his mouthy attitude. Mark knew Clyde was best handled with a shot of tequila and few tranquilizers. He loved Clyde for his clear head and quick-wit. His leadership saved Mark's ass more times than Mark chose to remember. He had been with Mark since that first night in the Hospital after Mark was beaten and sent to the infirmary.

Mark stepped outside after checking the windows for any zombies in the area. He met the car as it parked in the alleyway. The man slid out the window because the alley was too narrow to open a door in. Mark thought he was hallucinating when he met the man's eye. He thought his face was turning to stone and his eyes were on fire.

"Hey man, didn't think I'd see you again."

"I had a change of heart."

Mark fidgeted with his rings. He was scared of this man. He wanted to know where his friends were, but he was afraid he would be killed for asking. He looked up at a window trying to figure out where Clyde was.

"What are you looking at, Mark?"

"Nothing. I thought I heard something."

"You look sick, kid. You need a fix?"

Mark wanted to refuse the free drugs. He didn't want to be stoned near this guy, but he couldn't make himself say no. He was nodding his head and gulping air as the man pulled out a needle full.

Mark tapped his forearm, the right arm this time. He was hunting for a vein to shoot. He never saw the needle hit his neck. He just felt the burning fluid rush into his head and send him spinning.

Clyde started screaming at Mark, but he couldn't understand what Clyde was saying. Maybe Clyde was too far away? He could only hear his own heartbeat slowing in his ears.

Mark fell asleep.

Clyde was the first thing he saw when he awoke. He focused in on him from across the room. Mark felt like he was in a familiar environment, but couldn't quite get a feel for where he was. He shook his head and banged it against the hard table he was tied to. It all came back to him. He was having that same old nightmare from before. He was in the treatment room in the hospital's basement. Clyde was standing at the window. The door must have been locked. Clyde couldn't get in the room and didn't move. He just looked at Mark with pained eyes.

Mark lifted his head and scanned the room. His neck protested the move of the head. He saw he was naked before his head fell back to the table with a loud bang.

"Oh, you are awake. Good."

Mark didn't identify the voice coming from across the room. It sounded muffled and distant. Mark felt a leather strap slip across his forehead and tighten in a buckle. He heard metal slapping the floor and wet moaning. He could smell the decay. The voice dragged the stench of fresh death with it when it walked up to Mark's bound body.

A face leaned into Mark's field of view. "Don't you know me, Mark? Or am I talking to Clyde now? I can never tell the difference between you pussies."

Mark recognized the voice and eyes. The cloth white surgical mask completed the sinister package. He realized the man from yesterday was this man, Dr. Faulk, without the mask. He cursed himself for not putting the two faces together. He must have been really craving drugs.

"Son, I'll make this simple. All I want is a confession from you. I am looking for truth. Remember how we reward truth here at Twin Branch Asylum?

Mark hesitated to speak. He feared Dr. Faulk and hated him for the things he did to people. He thought back to days when he would rat out his friends to get a doctor's prescription for the painkillers Faulk got him hooked on.

"Mark, I'll make this simple, answer a question, and I give you a hit. You lie, well, lets just say I won't be the one to discipline you for it."

Mark heard the chains slap and scratch at the floor. He heard the moaning noises again from across the room. There were zombies in the room, probably chained to the wall. Mark pissed on himself. The urine shot up out of his penis and sprayed all over his chest and face. He could hear it dripping off the table onto the cold concrete floor. He heard zombies howl and tug at their restraints. The piss must have hit them, throwing them into hunger frenzy. Their teeth started to clack together.

"Well! Now you have done it, Mark. You 'pissed' them off. I am not sure I can contain them much longer. How will I concentrate to work, hmm?" Dr. Faulk held a small amputation circular saw up in Mark's face as if he was introducing a product to potential buyers. "Now I need to shut them up."

The saw came to life. Mark screamed in pain, drowning out the zombies. The little finger on his right hand was cut off. Mark screamed hysterically as the doctor went to work on the opposite finger on the left hand.

The Doctor dipped Mark's pinkies in the blood flow, thoroughly saturating them like fries in ketchup. As with the saw, he held the fingers in Mark's view, allowing the blood to drip and pool on his forehead, eventually slipping down to his temples.

Mark felt the blood seep through the adjustment holes punched in the belt. He bit back any further screams and tried coping with the pain. His pinkies were gone. He hoped the pain would go away and wondered why his nerves were so sensitive.

"It's a special drug we use here at the hospital with a small mix of amyl nitrate thrown in to relax the muscles. Trust me, you are going to feel every bit of pain I give you, Mark. I tried this stuff last night before I fucked your friend, Zoë. What a goddamn orgasm!"

The Doctor turned Mark's head over to the side at a darkened corner. Mark saw a pair of zombies shrouded in the dark clawing at their necks. He saw a flash of metal leashes with chains keeping them attached to the wall.

"Time to feed, kiddies," the Doctor said as he tossed the bloody fingers at the pair of dead bodies. The fingers landed at the feet of the zombies; immediately inciting a barbaric fight for flesh.

Mark thought he heard the doctor laugh with delight over the sound of crunching bone and wet chewing. His head was tipped back to its previous position. Mark was relieved.

"I know things about you, Mark. I know about your imaginary friend, Clyde. He isn't real, you know. You made him up to cope with the abandonment of being placed here against your will. I know you are afraid of many things, Mark. I know what you fear. I am just going to ask you a few questions about your time here. There were only a few survivors at this hospital, Mark. You, me, Zoë, John."

Mark cut him off, "and Clyde," he attempted to shout it out in defense of his friend, but could only murmur. He figured Clyde would pick up a chair and try breaking through the glass to save him like he always had in the past.

The Doctor slapped Mark's face with a rubber strap. "Clyde isn't real you fucking nut. I'm talking about someone a little bit more physical. I'm talking about your girlfriend, Gina."

Mark's face flushed. He forgot about the pain in his hands and face. He thought back to Gina and their plans of escape. They started pretending to swallow their drugs and continued to act like crazed idiots long after they had shaken the side effects of withdrawal from the narcotics. Freedom was more important. Mark remembered Clyde going away after being free from the drugs. He was clear-headed and strong. Then the night of their escape came. An orderly caught them in the act and sounded the alarm. Gina was held down, tranquilized and stripped of her clothes. Mark took his needle with a fight. He was knocked unconscious before the orderlies started to rape Gina.

"I have seen her, Mark. I would really like to know what your intentions were with her, Mark. Did you plan to get married? Were you going to have children? Did you ever get the chance to fuck her?"

The Doctor slipped the surgical mask off his mouth, revealing Michael's chiseled sinister features. He grinned at Mark as if meeting him for the first time. He shifted his eyes over Mark's face as if hunting for a sign of recognition.

Mark swallowed a ball of bile that lurched up his throat. He was overwhelmed with the idea his love was alive. He told Michael how he saw her fall from the window and into the arms of some zombie cop. He saw her arm snap back. She just lay there as the zombies approached. He ran for his life in tears.

"Well, I'll have you know Gina is alive and well, Mark. She and I have been together for some time now. I got to fuck her last night against my car. Too bad you won't be able to do that. She doesn't love you anymore because you left her behind."

Mark couldn't bear it. He knew he was about to die a horrible death. The zombies were howling for his blood with undead zeal.

The saw came back to life, spraying tiny spots blood from its blade onto Mark's pale body. The saw screamed in a steady hiss. Michael gently cupped Mark's genitals in his hand.

"You won't be needing this anymore, Mark."

Mark screamed again. The blade chopped and ripped unsteadily through his penis and scrotum. His pelvis felt wet and hot as the blood spurted forth. When the saw died again, he heard a wet slapping sound on the concrete. He knew the zombies were devouring his genitals.

Mark tried to keep his vision from tunneling. He was bleeding to death.

The zombies made short work of Mark's severed member. His head was tipped again toward the zombies.

Michael crossed the room to the zombies, who completely ignored him as he walked behind them to the metal retaining pin keeping them pinned to the hospital wall.

As the pin gave with a metallic grind, the zombie duo lurched forward into the light, revealing the gray-blue faces of John and Zoë. Both had suffered serious injuries prior to death. John's entire midsection dragged behind him in a string of mucus. His wrists wore the remnants of last night's binding ropes and stakes. Michael had drugged him before tying him to the ground for the undead to feast upon. Zoë died of an apparent gunshot wound to the side and bled to death. Her naked body shimmered with Mark's fresh blood and semen from his scrotum.

Mark looked across the room, through John's missing midsection and looked upon his only friend in the world, the only person unscathed by this nightmare. He looked into Clyde's eyes and winced with the tearing of teeth on his chest and thigh.

Clyde faded.

Gina duct taped her sleeping bag to the top of her backpack. She couldn't find the coil of rope Michael brought in with him the day before, so she made do with what she had. She had searched everywhere for it, but it was gone. She knew her escape had to be perfectly planned and go down like clockwork. She had to convince herself that killing Michael was her only option now. He was a threat to her survival. She opened a corner cabinet near the oven hood. She was looking for matches and some fuel to build a campfire. She paused and looked around the kitchen and dining nook. Despite its janitorial look, the basement was very functional and stocked with supplies. Too many supplies for her to carry even without a broken arm. The church was nestled in a wooded region far enough away from a small town to go unnoticed by most ravaging gangs. The road was damaged and treacherous for most compact cars. There was a generator and an oil-burning radiator under the stairs. The windows were too high for any zombie to reach. You could kill an entire gang of scavengers before they knew the bullets were coming from the bell tower.

The bell tower.

.Don't make too much racket to attract the dead

Gina snatched her pistol and bullets from the table and ran for the stairs.

Michael felt like he was the ringleader in a circus freak show. He pounded on the steering wheel, drumming out the beat to a song he was composing in his head. The horn groaned with every slap on the wheel. The strained horn blasts startled Michael's trio of undead hood ornament trophies with every bleat. Michael giggled at the zombie's stupidity and short-term memory. Michael trussed them down like deer with their heads facing the dusty street. John's right arm had broken free of the rope and was flailing about worthlessly. Mark's body was drained of blood and was just starting to show stiff signs of undead life. Zoë was in a daze staring at the rushing earth below her, wincing only when the horn sounded.

Michael grimaced briefly at the initial sight of Mark's penis sticking out of John's missing midsection, but collected himself and giggled some more. He floored the accelerator in anticipation of seeing Gina again. He rubbed his crotch and shivered.

The dead horde didn't move. They stood in silent reverence and awe. Aside from the ghouls with broken necks, the dead swarm cocked their heads to the heavens and were mesmerized with the ringing of the large church bell.

Gina white knuckled the bell rope with her left hand and had wrapped the slack around her cast. She rang the bell with full weight of her body. The momentum had lifted her completely off the creaky floorboards. Now raising and dropping at a pendulum pace, she held her breath and hoped the cast wouldn't break. Her arm throbbed against the tension of the wrapped rope against the semi-hard paper. Her eardrums were blazing from the loud bell ringing above her head. She shot her gaze across the fields and road. Countless stiff and misshapen shadows approached from all directions. She knew she was safe up here in the church steeple. Even if the dead could tear the wooden doors away from their hinges, it would take a fire or chainsaw to get through the barricade she constructed at the entrance. She had only to worry about Michael and his unknown rage.

Gina let go of the rope and dropped to the floor. The bell continued to ring for several seconds, masking the shuffling and stomping as she crawled to a crack in wooden belfry panel to watch for signs of the Chrysler. She held her breath for a long moment and felt a lump grow in her throat. Her pulse quickened and her forehead was moist with sweat. The earth below her was a choppy sea of movement. The rotting dead swarmed the church like maggots on a dead rat. The lot below stunk of an abattoir. the stench wafted to her high perch, stinging her sinuses. Gina doubted any of the dead could detect her scent from above.

A distant low humming sound was added to the cacophony of moans. Gina spotted Michael's old car approaching. Her blood thickened and her mouth went dry. She began to panic despite her obvious superior position. She dropped flat and hoped the bells wouldn't continue to ring.

Michael was furious at the size of the crowd surrounding the church. The church windows were unbroken and the doors looked sturdy. He couldn't understand what would draw such a large number to the church.

Michael craned his neck out the window as he entered the driveway. He slowed down near a half-devoured waitress in a bloodstained uniform. Michael read her black nametag and whistled at the ghoul. "Excuse me, Doris," he said in a faux southern drawl, "church ain't till Sunday! Can I get some grits and toast?"

The undead Doris swung her bloody stumps at his face and growled. Michael giggled and clumsily dodged her advance on him. He pulled his head back inside and drove over a group of three undead children.

White froth spewed from the mouths of the fresher dead as they snapped their heads around to view the newcomer. They stretched their wraithlike arms and shambled toward the Chrysler as it slowed to a stop. The crowd surged against the old car. Michael gunned the engine forward and crushed an advancing group of zombies under the weight of the large automobile. He laughed and reversed gears - rolling back over the crippled and splintered bodies, adding a few more ghouls to his body count.

Gina summoned her courage and commanded herself to look down to see what Michael was doing. He was truly sick. He tied a trio of zombies to the hood of his car. Whatever he was up to, he was planning on sharing it with her when he returned. She couldn't think of any other reason why he would tie zombies to the car. He was cutting a swath in the horde without lifting a finger. She cocked her head at the spectacle. Was that a penis sticking out from the midsection of one of the zombies? She couldn't take her eyes of the group of dead as Michael drove forward and back over the others. A small spark of recognition was rising in her mind.

Mark.

Michael partially rolled his window down. He slid his pistol out and shot a nearby ghoul near the car door. He killed the engine and stepped out. He looked straight up at the bell tower. He suddenly realized what was going on.

"Gina, I didn't think you would get this lonely! I hope you made enough dinner for all of us!" Michael spun and kicked the head off a rotten zombie trapped under his tire. The head struck another in the chest, knocking it to the ground.

Michael's lips thinned in contemplation over this unexpected situation. There were over a hundred zombies shambling toward him. He climbed onto the roof of the car, hoping to escape the reach of the horde. He divided his gaze between the belfry and the undead.

"Well, here we are again! What have I done to you, Gina? Why did you do this to us? I fixed your arm, made you breakfast. Hell, if it weren't for me, you probably would have died from gangrene or went crazy by now."

Michael took a minute to kick away the zombies like he was a rock star on stage. For the first time in his life, he started to panic.

"LET ME IN YOU FUCKING CUNT! IF YOU DON'T LET ME INSIDE, I'LL HAVE TO FIGHT MY WAY IN THE HARD WAY. IF I MAKE IT IN THERE BY MYSELF, YOU'LL WISH FOR THE DAYS OF BEING GANG RAPED BY ORDERLIES BACK AT THE ASYLUM."

Michael's adrenaline-fueled courage surged. He slid down the windshield and stepped over to Gina's dead friends. He cut Zoë loose and dropped her to the ground. He sat on Mark's back, leaned over and reached into John's gut. He removed Mark's penis from the bloody gaping hole. He slapped the penis against Mark's back and then stood up with the mangled member. He waved it around and showed it to the undead. He pitched it behind the fray. The current shifted when the bulk of the horde rushed for the flesh.

Michael's front left tire exploded. He jumped back in shock and nearly fell into the arms of dead Doris. He shot his gaze up at the bell tower and locked eyes with Gina.

"Don't move, you fucker."

Mark's undead blood-drained eyes lifted in dazed recognition of the voice. He absently stared at Gina. His shrunken mouth opened, revealing yellow teeth and blackened gums. He moaned softly at his love. Gina wept at the sight of him. Enraged, she glared back at Michael, bringing her pistol to bear.

"Gina, please." Michael begged.

Gina's pistol thundered. The bullet ripped through Michael's thigh, dropping him off the far side of the Cordoba.

The earth seemed to rush up to meet Michael, striking him in the back and knocking the wind from his lungs.

The undead shambled towards the car. Gina couldn't see Michael's face anymore. She frantically redirected her gaze back to Mark. She took aim at his face and paused. Despite death, she still found him beautiful. Her eyes welled in stinging tears. She cocked her pistol and prepared to put her love out of his misery.

Michael returned fire from his prone position, despite the lack of oxygen attributing to his poor aim. The bullet grazed Gina's broken arm, sending a hot shock of searing pain through her body. The pistol dropped from her grip before she could react, bouncing off the belfry ledge, skittered down the sloped rooftop, and clattered into the attached aluminum gutter. Gina swiped at the gun when it sprang from her grip in the vain attempt at catching it. Forward momentum dragged her slight frame over the waist-high plywood wall. She fell hard onto the peak of the church roof, and rolled down the slippery shingles to the edge.

Remarkably, her cast caught a rusty bolt, allowing her a moment to grip the thin metal retainers that attached the gutter to the roof. Her shins followed through with the rest of her momentum, smacking violently against the whitewashed cinderblock church below the eaves. Another flood of pain charged up her spine, setting off panic alarms in her brain. She bit back the urge to cry and attract attention. She feared a zombie audience beneath her would only encourage her to just let go and get it all over with.

Michael fought a group of undead away from his crumpled form as he stood up to admire Gina's precarious new position. He regained his breath before limping back onto the car. Mark stiffly protested his presence. John flailed his free arm at Michael and clacked his teeth. Blood dripped from Michael's thigh onto John's wrist, causing John to moan and bite on on the appendage with passionate zeal.

Gina desperately gripped the support rod and tried not to kick her legs. She was at least thirty feet from the earth, and her view was limited. She could hear the undead below, and she knew Michael was enjoying what he saw. She felt the skin in her hand peel and bleed. If she dropped, she would probably survive the impact with broken legs, but she would be an easy picking for the dead. She was certain Michael would be able to defeat the zombies. She was torn between what fate would be worse, eaten alive by zombies, or incapacitated in the care of a twisted and enraged Michael. She would be tortured, taunted and probably raped. How did he know about the orderlies at the hospital? Why did he go out to find Mark and the others? The coincidence was too unlikely.

He was laughing.

She suddenly realized who Michael was. Her mind flooded her veins with adrenaline. The pain waned as her strength returned with a rush. She slammed her cast into the gutter, bending both slightly. She shot her left arm over to a nearby drainpipe. Shifting her center of gravity, she pulled herself over to the pipe, which immediately bent under her weight.

Michael busied himself pushing the dead away from the car with the heels of his feet, indiscriminately crushing the skulls of the taller ones who were close enough to kill. He caught of brief glimpse of Gina, but couldn't understand what she was doing. He was convinced she was about to die. He figured he could drag her broken body up to the car and get that fuck he was craving just before she lost her body heat and reanimated.

The pipe creaked under her frame, pulling the attached gutter away from the roof with it. Gina could see the horde below her. Her actions were raising hell on the ground. Nearly every zombie watched her and waited like obedient dogs.

She winced at the heavy scrape of metal-on-metal. Her gamble paid off. The pistol slid into the hand of her wedged broken arm. She continued the slow and deliberate decent to the ground. She braced for impact, hoping the momentum wouldn't stun her the same as it had done to Michael, trapping her under the weight of the pipe and gutter. She unfurled her legs from around the pipe and prepared to ground them on impact. She swung them sharply in hopes of deflecting any rotting mouths or hands.

The dead didn't move while she descended in a slow arc from the building. The bulk of the group stood stupefied and transfixed on her near the church wall. They stiffly shifted their gaze to watch her fall. A few zombies were beating their broken fists and bloody stumps on the church doors, ignorant to what was transpiring above their heads.

She hit the ground softer than expected, with time enough to move away from the gutter before it crashed to the ground, snapping the zombies out of their hunger trance. They sluggishly converged on their new target. Her landing even attracted the attention of the group surrounding the Cordoba. Michael looked exhausted, barely keeping a grip on his pistol. His pant leg was soaked with his blood. Again, he met her gaze.

Gina leveled her pistol at the zombies and fired, clearing a path to the car. She dashed to the passenger door, and tried the door handle despite seeing the lock button engaged. She had given up the edge and tactical advantage she had over Michael. She was so transfixed on the door; she completely ignored Michael towering above her.

Michael delivered a bone-cracking blow to Gina's face with his injured thigh. Blood exploded from her nostrils and trailed her body as she sailed backward, collapsing by the rear tire. Michael triumphantly dropped from the car and stood straddled over Gina. He threw his left elbow back, smashing the face of an advancing ghoul before plugging it with a bullet. He looked down at Gina, and felt the arousal surge against his chest and pants.

As if she sensed his libido intensify, Gina raised a foot into Michael's crotch. He toppled forward, smashing his chin on the pavement. Three teeth bit through his upper lip. Michael blindly reached back and snatched a heap of Gina's hair and pulled himself up, painfully dragging her with him. He stumbled back against the car and heaved his frame to the trunk away from the approaching dead with Gina in tow. After steadying himself, he pulled the lip away from the teeth and wiped the blood off his mouth. He smeared it across Gina's lips with a shaky caress.

Gina's eyes were swelling. She was starting to black out from her broken nose. She pushed away from Michael with force, ripping a patch of hair out of her head. Michael stared in shock the hair in his hand as he fell behind the car. Gina fired at him as he dropped, but missed and struck the trunk instead.

Michael's hand scratched at the trunk in the vain effort of stopping himself. The trunk sprang open, unleashing the blonde pair of women he imprisoned, now undead and free of their bonds. The women heaved their torsos with distressed and eager grunts, descending onto their captor.

Gina stumbled in shock to get a better view. Her brain was attempting to process what had just happened in a matter of split seconds. She gazed with mixed emotions of horror and pleasure at the grotesque return of poetic justice. The naked undead women tore at Michael's clothes like groupies.

Snarling mouths ripped into his tanned chest and pelvis. Michael fixed his gaze on Gina one last time. He didn't have the breath to make a sound, but he mouthed a "thank you" to her and actually winked before he was overwhelmed with the pain of the two women feasting on him. His face contorted into a twisted grimace of ecstasy when his throat was ripped out and his body finally quit jerking.

Gina smirked and delivered a bullet to Michael's forehead. The shot startled the zombie duo. She shot them before they could focus their attention on her. She collected Michael's pistol and car keys and faced the closest zombies.

After cutting John and Mark free from the car hood, she allowed herself to cry when she shot them. She climbed into the driver's seat and revived the engine. Her face was awash in hot tears and blood. She drove away slowly, drawing the horde from the church as she went, leaving her pain behind.

After darkness came, Gina rechecked the door's security and walked through the church's upper level. She stopped to check her handiwork at boarding the window she broke to get back in. She took the back stairs to the basement. She strode into the kitchen and dropped her pistol on the countertop. She poured a cup of sugar-free punch and smiled. After a quick sip, she made a mental note to take a shower and find some bullets.

I woke to a burning in my hands, a bone-deep ache and weariness filling me.

I looked up. I had been stretched across the backseat, and Marilin was standing beside me, big star-filled blue eyes inches from mine.

He drew back. I cannot heal your hands; they have the touch of Essence in them and will scar, but...

I was too weak even to lift a hand. Carefully, infinitely gently, he moved one of my hands out from under the thick blankets and lifted it before my eyes.

It had grown and shifted, and was now long, slender, and infinitely graceful, the bones delicate yet strong, as if masterpieces sculpted with loving care by the greatest sculptor in all the universe, designed for their slim, pale beauty, long, capable, graceful fingers, and,

And the delicate golden sign inscribed upon my palm, of the seven-pointed star.

The Sign, said Marilin, of the Essence's touch. He showed me the small and intricate mark on his own large palm. "It is given to all of the Miriana Order of Majik. The Wind Walkers are said to have a similar symbol, but of an eagle. The Ennai have the rising sun..."

You're starting to ramble, Marilin, I said.

Oh, I am sorry. I have a tendency to do that. Marilin sank into the space beside me, his head beginning to nod. He must have stayed awake for,

Marilin?

There was a sleepy acknowledgement.

How long have I been out?

Only three weeks. And then he was in deep sleep, a healing deep sleep.

The Essence had renewed him for a time, but even with that, he had expended nearly all of his energy on me. He'd spent three weeks without sleep, drawing on the Earth's energies alone, meditating when he need not watch so closely. Poor kind old Marilin, I thought. Bless him. He doesn't have the ability to be anything but good, honest, kind, generous, caring. He has what I have, the Sense. Of course, he did have the Eyes of the Mirianas, those that saw the Essence, and the Heart of Alai, which she had spent so long pouring complex energies and creating its infinitely mystifying intricacies. The Mirianas were the Essence enfleshed, the Essence's spirit in mortal form, however immortal it may seem. Yuon was the only Miriana physically immortalized; she was two billion years old, and the most revered among the People of the Essence, Children of the Stars. The Mirianas were given myriad names in myriad tongues and had touched many worlds; always leaving behind some of their wisdom, save on those touched by Alundar's dark presence.

Irresistibly, sleep pulled me down, and I relinquished reality for dreams, immersing myself in my wanderings, for dreams are the gates to other worlds, and more importantly, to truth ... if you only can decipher their ancient script.

I dreamt I was in a beautiful place. There were the melodies of birds I had never heard. They came and looked at me curiously, and flew away.

There was a waterfall there, and it was captivating. Its fall seemed to play a melody. I was drawn to its edge, where I looked wistfully down the sheer mountain cliff, watching the fall of water, simple in its achingly beautiful light. A warm golden sun shone on the water, reflecting rainbows the like of which I had never seen.

I stood there, and a longing so deep filled me that it seemed to open doors within my mind and fill up the empty spaces within with the image of that mountainside, a sorrow so deep it was boundless, it was endless. I was going to drown in it. I wanted to. I wanted to plunge right into its center and let it carry me, helpless, away.

I woke up with tears in my eyes. Marilin was watching me. I saw that waterfall in his eyes, felt the sorrow threaten to drown me, felt that longing to plunge into its center, to let it carry me, and maybe by its force I would go...

Where would I go?

The old one blinked, and it was gone.

Do you remember how to walk?

I realized we had stopped.

"Maybe."

Marilin moved aside and the door opened. Slowly, stiffly, I sat up, muscles protesting from disuse. I swung my legs over the side of the seat, turned too fast, toppled sideways,

And was caught against a body by a pair of arms I knew. I snuggled my head down against Simon's shoulder and held on to him, as an excuse to touch him.

"You can't expect to be carried everywhere..."

"Marilin," I said weakly. Simon let me stand and I trembled, legs barely supporting me.

"The melody!" I cried, and with horror I felt reality warp. Suddenly I fell, gasping, as reality erupted into pandemonium, dimensions of existence crashing, melding and unmelding. A phrase "beamquake" filled my mind and chimed there for a moment. I screamed because I knew I had brought this to the people I loved.

"Go!" I cried ... or I tried to. "The Essence! I have broken part of the Essence!" My mind reeled at the possibility. If my changing had somehow warped a part of the Essence...

I felt great powers roil and shift, whirling within like great faceted dragon eyes. Inaela was near and I waved her away. For once, she understood, and left me, perching on the roof with the other three.

I felt as though I were spiraling endlessly downward, my soul powerless to stop the terrible flow of reality caving in, tearing itself apart, around me. I was a hole in the fabric of the universe, I realized in some great center of my mind, and as the world went up in screaming light I too screamed, as my mind was ripped from my human body with force enough to tear even a Miriana's soul asunder.

I watched, a disembodied awareness, an entity, as my body imploded, leaving nothing but a swirling vortex of cosmic silver light behind. Peering into it was disconcerting. It was almost as though it could suck one in. Its silver was metallic, like silver, glassy metal, like a tube with warped sides where someone had let the glass run, filled with a dense silver-blue fog, reaching to the depths of eternity. The fog whirled in such a powerful whirlpool it was sure to tear anything that entered it to shreds. Space and time were distorted round its ragged edges; when one looked at it from one side, one could see entire galaxies in it, and from another angle, space seemed compressed; from another it seemed that time whizzed at insane speeds and from yet another time moved so slowly everything seemed to stand very still.

On a higher dimension, or in another of the many folds of reality, I could hear it emitting a strange sound, like a snake hissing, a bright, glowing silver streak in dead still, starless night, and accompanying the hissing, a discordant jangle of chime-like notes that were at the same time beautiful and infinitely horrible. The night in question appeared as though it would be an utter nothing, "Todash," a true void, without a single atom in its space. It was the space between dimensions, between folds in the fabric, where there was such a nothing it was difficult to comprehend.

I realized I was hearing exactly what anything, if anything could get into the nothing, would hear.

And then, shining faintly in the nothing, was a spider's web.

Of all things! A spider's web!

The spider had been instantly petrified in its network of intricate strands, now in the blackness glowing a faint white.

Yet there was something frightening about this spider web, something...

It was too fast, too sudden. It erupted.

No ... an atom within it had been torn asunder, I realized, and rocked several folds out of place.

The silver hole emitted a chilling silver scream, a sound I will never, for all my immortal millennia to await me, be able to forget, and imploded.

With it, it took the reality that had bent out of shape, and in its implosion pulled them back into place.

I switched my mind back to normal. The body I'd inhabited for that mere twenty-three years was dead. I was little more than a disembodied spirit.

Most beings whose bodies died would have also died in spirit. Six thousand years ago, when they lost touch with Cianan, Maerlyn, and Eliniria,the Mirianas called Alai, and she gave my spirit the power to pass from life to life as many do. The Mirianas usually cannot, but there are exceptions. The Miriana spirits rarely did that, though, they were immortal, but many chose to fade at some point. One cannot live forever, even the greatest can't. Madness is inevitable for any soul, save Alai's, and the ones that got second, third, and so on lives.

If a soul failed at a life twelve times in a row or was mortally poisoned, for there are dark forces that can poison souls, then they get no more chances. The Essence extinguishes the poor things. Plus, if a soul fails twelve times it is bound to be in an irreversible depression and it is only kind to extinguish the poor thing.

I'm alive, Marilin. Look up. No, Marilin, Look up.

Oh! He altered something in his eyes, not the focus but the depth of existence they saw.

We can take you back to Miria.

Can you do that?

That is a far, far distance. I don't, He broke off, and then shrieked on several levels of sound, noises that the human ear couldn't hear pulsing in that scream, hitting octaves both so high and so low that his shriek had an eerie quality. If humans could hear it, it would make their skin crawl. But they could feel it. "They're coming!" He used the same voice, screaming it on five different notes. "RUN!"

They leapt into the truck, and drove away.

They had left me behind.

I let out a scream. I screamed as my heart was torn in two as they left me. I screamed as I realized that never again could I be like them. Never. I screamed because all of the joys and even the pains of the world were denied me ... eternally. Evil immortality! Now I wished desperately that I could fade. Yes, I could be a note of song. I could be caught up in that great melody. But there was something ... too eternal about it. I was a being of life, and one life and eternity don't mix, Miriana or no. Never again would I feel the simple warmth of sunlight. I could still hear but never again understand intimately and revel in the pure and simple joy of life around me. To hear the myriad beautiful whispers and lives reaching to me, and never be able to be one with them again! No! Black despair washed over me in crushing waves. I had lost the essence of my existence.

And I had lost my baby, and my Simon.

I streaked across the skies, trying to lose myself to the brilliance of the night's lights, trying to be eternally, blissfully lost. I laid back all my shields against such things, and hoped, prayed, that the sheer immensity of it, the sheer eternity and timelessness and incomparable beauty of it, would swallow me, destroy me, and breathe me into light as happens to all souls when they fade. I screamed again and filled the stars with my cry, and in a streak of burning silver flew into space, and was...

Not gone yet. I floated, lost among the stars. Now my fate was to be forever itself. But I was not like Alai. Near immortality as a Miriana was out of the question, unless they'd put my body into suspended animation on Miria, and perfected the questioned practice of "trading souls." Last I remembered, even they were hesitant about doing that.

Eventually I could not feel and drifted listlessly among the lights and energies. I could never sleep, but I entered a numb, emotionless state. It may have lasted minutes, hours, days, weeks. Until it all gloriously faded ... and the Essence, seeing my plight, took me, and I was no more...

Sweet oblivion.

But eventually, through the darkness, I sensed events on Earth, events something wanted me to see, events that comprised what I thought then would be my last vision.

Simon, Marilin, and Ashlee were headed on alone. Marilin watched over Niamh. It seemed like he was now designated healer. But his last healing had failed.

Eventually, Simon stopped speaking. He ate little, slept little, and confided in no one.

One night, Marilin caught him outside, standing bleakly, face turned to the sky.

Marilin slipped up beside him and stood with him, feeling his dark sadness.

She's not dead, you know.

"How do you mean?" Even to Simon, his voice didn't sound like his own anymore.

She is with the stars.

"The light ... from that book ... the eternal starlight ..."

There is much they did not understand when they wrote that book. That book was correct about the starshine and the immortality and the energy, but ... but it is so much more than that!

"Will you die here, like ...?"

Like the story? Oh, I did die here, Simon. I always wanted to see the family again but...

It didn't need to be spoken. They were dead. The beautiful one was dead. She would be very old now, seventy at least. Humans age very quickly. Even the youngest child would be in her late thirties and have children by now, a family and a life. Yes, they were all dead, he knew it. He'd known it, known the second the old connection shattered.

But he was with the stars, too. Marilin was sure he'd been given the choice. Only lower Earthling and nonsentient souls were not given that choice. They were definitely sentient. He'd seen sentients with less technology than they, and they were still definitely sentient, just less mentally evolved.

"Then you will fade."

I am fading. Fast fading, and this time ... this time, I do not come back. Iyana was Alai's last child; she will be immortalized, but I ... I will fade. I have been here a very long time, you know. But I failed my people.

They looked out on the bleak land. The infection had choked the life out of the country. They were in what may have once been a small town somewhere in Alaska, as their attempt to cross the Canadian border had ended in disaster and they had been forced to first retrace their original course and then go further north still, but the color seemed to have been drained from everything.

Simon could feel energies far above and around him. It was beautiful, but it was cold, distant. It was something that he could touch, but it no longer seemed warm as it had before. It no longer embraced him in lovely golden and silver lights. Now it was only a fading white glow, the desperate bid, the plea for help to the stars of a planet dying in agony. The earth was holding its last breath deep within itself.

And the stars did not come to its aid, or they did not feel it calling. But how could they not? As a part of the Essence, once built by the One, it should have been linked. In the long-ago, long before any life had existed on its surface, a unique life form had been brought there by, none now knew who. A song of life had begun, the first flower, a rose, had bloomed, and life had been sung into the dead ground. But there had been discord now for a time. Even the Mirian Wanderers had denied it, though. Discord, in their lovely universe! Why, of course not! Alundar Darklord Crimson King was imprisoned and Alai, immortalized, namesake of the great Daughter of the One who had split from the Family and created the Mirianas, would not allow discord again. The Daughter herself, Mother of Peoples, Child of Time, would not allow it.

But the Mirian Wanderers had to accept it now. They were the elite on Miria, most eminent among their people save for Yuon, the High Court of Andelin, and the Shining Minds. The Wanderers, the group of which Marilin, Yuon's grandson, was a member, had to accept that there was discord. Yuon's only child was dead, dead in the former discord in which Alundar had attempted to ascend the Great Tower in the Middle Worlds, and he was the only child she could ever be allowed. She was barren and childless; the one now dead had been an unforeseen birth, her only attempt to spin life.

And the discord was killing Earth, one of the weaker of worlds, first. The dead walked its once over-populated cities, blood flowed in its rivers, its seas were now vast graveyards of the formerly diverse eco system they had once supported. And at the heart of this discord lay, like a hideous many-headed Hydra, the Corporation. And behind them? Alundar, sometimes known as the Crimson King? Some other force bent on the destruction of all? The Red? Todash? None now knew.

There was a slight rustling sound nearby, then out of the darkness came two creatures. One was six feet tall, stately and beautiful, crowned in long hairlike fibers, but these were feathery and a pale, glowing green, but a rich, gem color. Its skin was nearly luminescent, a beautiful green the hue of which cannot be described. Its eyes were like great stars with flickers of many colors dancing in them. Their overall color was indescribable, and can only be called starlight. This being moved so softly and with such perfect grace that it appeared to glide, never touching the ground, and the beautiful simplicity of it struck Marilin with wonder. He knew these beings.

The five-foot one was slender and willowy, its skin a deeper green, not such a fairy light hue as the other, but more of a deep green like leaves with steady, soft light shining through them. Its eyes were a beautiful emerald green, but it was like looking into living emerald, emerald that could flower and grow on long, dark stems. It moved gracefully, but it moved as though it should be made of water, or be moving through something thick and fluid.

Marilin! Marilin! The cry of the shorter and obviously younger one was a voice that Marilin recognized. This being was sixteen million years old, and was his parent, the other his grandparent, and the great one was twenty-three million years old, whose eyes had seen much, who had traveled all the known worlds, and then elected to spend its days in the simple peace of the far edges of their world rather than live in the brightness at its center. The old one was Aeia Aleniue, Wind Song in their tongue, and the younger Faeya Aleniue, Star Song, of the line of Tiannen Arelindinan, whose name can only be translated as "the one with eyes of many lights" or "the one who sees beyond." Tiannen still lived, Marilin knew.

Simon perceived that these two; especially Aeia, were of great stature on their world, holding such power and knowledge that his soul, only little more than twelve million, eight thousand years, a speck to Faeya and especially Aeia in her third stage of life. In her fourth stage, her skin would turn gold and she would grow even more slender and flexible, and become something more birdlike, he knew somehow. It was part of the ancestral memories he would gain when he reached fifteen million years, in the second developmental stage, of which there were seven.

"Tiannen calls you back, Marilin. This is the second time!"

Marilin looked up. Aeia was angry with him, Faeya pleading. "Marilin, Marilin! One accident thirty-four years ago has led to all this!"

"Tiannen is angry," said Aeia.

They were speaking in their own tongue, and Marilin was aware of Simon's confusion. He could wait. No one should see him in disgrace.

He bowed his head. "I merely wished..."

"Oh, Marilin. Give it up. Look at this place," said Aeia.

"The infection has choked it!" said Marilin.

"Aeia!" said Faeya. "Peace, Aeia, what has gotten into you, mother-one?"

Aeia looked down on her daughter. "Faeya, you know the consequence they set for him getting stuck here again."

"Watch out!" Marilin used the cosmic scream in hopes of frightening the dark shapes behind them. He feared what the infection would do to Mirianas like Aeia and Faeya.

Tiannen can teleport, thought Marilin desperately. Tiannen!

He wove the call into the essence of starshine and flung it across six galaxies, four dimensional gateways, and half a universe, where it would reach the timeless being.

And then they were on him.

He had never called Tiannen; in fact he had never met the aged being. But if there was ever a time when they would need the great one, it was now. The earth was gasping its last breaths, wreathed in discord that kept it from speaking to the stars; disease, war, and death raged across its surface, and a race was on the verge of dying.

He hovered, shooting blasts of concentrated energy down on the crowd of infected below.

Just when he had given up all hope, there was a burst of light, a sending entered his mind, imperious and powerful, from a vastly more advanced and aged being than himself.

My child.

Tiannen's disappointment stung, hurting worse than the anger of the Captain of the Wanderers, or his banishment from Ithelian and the other great cities had.

You have gotten Faeya and Aeia into this situation. How they got here is a mystery even to me.

Iyana's black hole.

Iyana! Tiannen gasped. Alai's child! Where is she?

Dead.

The whirling light resolved itself into a tall, slim creature. Tiannen was not green-skinned like the others, but golden-skinned, with the star-eyes of indescribable color one gained at third stage, the golden skin gained at fourth, and the wings gained at fifth. How Aeia had gotten the eyes thirty-two million years early was a mystery to Marilin. He was taller by half a foot than Aeia, a development that came at sixth stage. He had completely slimmed down, which happened gradually, where Faeya was still soft and Aeia as if feather-padded. He was beautiful and ethereal, and his hair was gold and voice soft and melodious, the last thing that came at seventh stage.

He raised his long, slender hands. They too were graceful, jointed, capable, and lily-smooth, as his feet were long and slender. The fingers were tipped with a brushing of blue, indelibly painted there with majik. His face was artfully painted, too, heavy blue above the eyes, designs tracing the prominent cheekbones, like living vines marked on his beautiful golden face. On his exposed, pale gold arms were living blue vines, studded with gold flowers. Marilin was sure there was more, under the woven jade-green silk of his robes. Tiannen's thin body was probably wrapped in the blue vines, here and there studded with a gemlike gold or red flower or green leaf. Tiannen was over a billion years old.

Tiannen dove like a streak of flaming gold into the fray, body wrapped in a nimbus of gold, red, blue, and green light, blue beams shooting from all his fingers at once, lances of starshine turned to cold, hard, silver points like the rays of avenging stars. And Tiannen could call on the forces of the stars themselves.

Marilin's energy was feeble next to Tiannen's. He could feel his strength ebbing, but desperately he tried to save his dear mother Faeya from the dread infected.

Tiannen lifted the two Mirianas from the fray, and blew the rest of the infected to nothing with the force of the heavens.

On the ground, Marilin bent over Simon. He had a terrible wound in his side, and the edges looked strangely smooth, as though it had only broken open.

Clouded eyes rolled away, exposing the whites, and then flicked frantically. "Marilin," he said.

"Don't try to talk," said Marilin in English.

Aeia, Faeya, and Tiannen gathered beside Simon.

"I cannot save him. No one can now," said Tiannen.

Simon's eyes cleared, and he seemed to look up, up past them, up past the stars, up into infinity.

And he breathed his last breath there in an alley on a godforsaken planet, and died with her name on his lips.

Ashlee looked stunned. "I lost all of them."

"Not all."

It was Niamh. She was standing shakily, but she was standing, holding with weak hands on to the door of the truck.

Ashlee's eyes flooded with tears, and she cried unashamedly. "I'm sorry, Niamh, so sorry." She picked up the little girl, and those night-eyes seemed to read her like a book. Niamh didn't cry. Niamh couldn't cry much at all usually. She had never uttered a sound in pain, not even when almost every operation she'd had complicated and almost anyone else would have been senseless.

Tiannen gestured over Simon's body, complex signs of peace, sleep, and light, signs to call the stars. "Rest in peace." Simon vanished, given over to the energy.

Ashlee looked at them. "I better be going." Then she looked down at Marilin.

"He must come with us," said Tiannen. "He will die here."

"Of course," she said, getting ahold of her emotions. "I'll miss you."

"I'll miss you," Niamh said.

Marilin smiled. "I have a feeling this isn't the last time I'll see you."

Then he turned to Tiannen, who spread his arms as if to embrace the three others. He gestured, infinitely complex portal signs, and they vanished.

Ashlee picked up Niamh, put her in the backseat with the blankets and clothes, most of which would soon be left behind, started the engine, and drove away.

She wandered aimlessly. With Simon and Iyana dead, there was nowhere to go. She could drive forever in black despair."

Iyana stopped speaking and her head settled back on the pillow-like pad at the head of her bed. Jenna softly stroked her cheek.

"Rest a while, now, Iyana," she said, "rest a while and let yourself grow strong."

Jenna knew that the tale was far from over, but she also knew that Iyana's strength was exhausted. She turned from the bed and made her way toward the entrance flap of the pavilion.

Yuon was standing there, as if waiting.

"Now you see," she said, "now you see what we all face."

"Ai," Jenna replied, "and it is partially thanks to the Red."

"Yes," Yuon said, "but not just the Red. There are other forces plotting the overthrow of what you call the Dark Tower and the end of all things. Iyana must live, Cianan must live, the three gunslingers must live, two must find what was lost."

"What mean you?" Jenna asked.

"You will learn that in time," Yuon said, "but now is not that time."


	4. Chapter 4 Nightstalker

As Yuon finished instructing Stephen as to what should be done with the vial she'd given him, the scene around Mark, Alison, and Stephen faded and was replaced by another. They found themselves standing on a paved rode on one side of which dark, snow covered mountains reared to the sky. On the other side was a cliff, at the bottom of which a river raged over jagged rocks the color of ash.

"Jesus Soda Pop Christ!" Mark cried, "talk about a temperature difference! Why didn't anyone tell us we'd need winter coats?"

"We have no winter coats," Stephen said calmly, "we gave ours to Roland to carry."

"Yuon or whatever her name is could have told us that we'd be going from eighty two or eighty four degree temperatures to a hundred below zero in a matter of seconds," Mark said through chattering teeth.

Before Mark could continue his rant on the subject of the cold, a pickup truck hurtled toward the three gunslingers, seemingly pursued by flying shadows, and after a moment, during which it appeared to slow, disgorging something small which flew into the air as if to attack the things chasing it, it was carried sideways over the cliff.

"Holy fucking shit!" cried Mark.

The three gunslingers, with Alison in the lead, started toward the scene of what was most likely not an accident, but before they had gone more than a few steps, they heard movement behind them. They turned, hands dipping for guns, and were confronted by what appeared to be two rotting corpses. The guns in Mark's hands fired and the corpses crumpled to the ground.

"Now," Alison said, "hopefully we won't have any more visitors before we find out what just happened."

She unslung her purse and produced a length of rope and a metallic clamp which she proceeded to fasten onto a protruding rock and lowered herself down the side of the cliff. Mark followed almost immediately, having a bit more trouble thanks to his greater size, making a sign for Stephen to guard their backs in case they had any more undead visitors.

When Alison reached the foot of the cliff, she saw a young woman attempting to salvage as much as she could from the rear of the pickup, which appeared to not have long left to exist as a working vehicle. The woman in question was doing this one-handed, her other hand hanging uselessly at her side.

"Had a bad fall?" Alison asked. The woman turned toward her and Alison could see the fear in her eyes, but not fear of her. It was fear of something else she saw. But what?"

"I'm Alison. And you are?"

"Ashlee," answered the woman, "could you help me with this? I'm having a little trouble. I think my fucking wrist is broken."

"Oh, sure, why not," Alison said and then turned back toward the cliff, "Mark, down here."

In another moment, Mark was beside them.

"How'd you get here?" he asked Ashlee.

"It's a long story," responded Ashlee.

"Did it happen to involve an infection suspiciously similar to that in the Resident Evil movies ...?"

"The what?" Ashlee interrupted.

"An all-powerful Corporation, a few genetically enhanced superhumans, and a rabid baby?" Mark continued as if he didn't hear Ashlee's question. He and Alison, being strong in the touch had been given all the details by Yuon telepathically as they were being transported.

As Mark was speaking, Alison saw something descending from the sky, something that resembled a winged child, but she didn't reach for her guns. She knew, thanks to Yuon, that this was Niamh, the child of Iyana, one of the two they were supposed to rescue. On the other hand, she heard and dimly saw that they had company at the top of the cliff. Several of the undead, or infected, or whatever they were had been drawn to them. She made a sign she hoped Stephen would see, a sign for him to get the hell down here as soon as possible or risk getting a new asshole torn into him.

At the same time, something from above caught Mark's attention.

"Oh fuck," he thought, "when it rains it fucking pours. I'm betting that's not the welcome wagon." He looked up and saw a helicopter which bore a device he had never seen before. It appeared to be the depiction of a white hand baring a red flame.

"I'll bet that's the Corporation," Alison thought as she moved to protect Ashlee and Niamh.

As Mark watched, a man began lowering himself out of the helicopter. He appeared to be an ordinary man, apart from his eyes, which were of the purest black Mark had ever seen. There was also something familiar about him although Mark would have sworn that he'd never laid eyes on the man before. For a moment it escaped him and then he knew. They were the eyes of a man possessed and he had a horrible feeling he knew who or what was in this man. His and Alison's hands were a blur as they drew their guns and aimed them at the man from the Corporation helicopter.

The man dropped to the ground, but before he could even begin in Ashlee and Niamh's direction, Stephen Deschain loosed his hold on the rope he had been clinging to and landed on the man's back, sending him flying.

The man beneath Stephen turned and bit into his shoulder, but Stephen ignored the pain and drew left-handed.

"I wouldn't if I were you," Stephen said, adopting the terminology of Mark and Alison's world, and after a moment during which he too saw that the man he was fighting was no longer, in any sense, human, emptied all six chambers of his left gun into the man's throat.

"Jesus Christ," Mark said, "we're not even in this world for two minutes and already we've had to shoot someone. Can't we ever end up somewhere without...?" Before he could say anything else, he noticed that the man, although dead, was still moving. He rose shakily, clutching at the huge wound in his throat, as if he were trying to hold his head on, and turned toward them.

"He's infected," Ashlee said.

"Tell me something I don't know," Mark thought, but didn't say.

"Move!" Alison said, lifting Niamh, leaping for the rope Stephen had left hanging, gripping it, and climbing it with all possible speed, whilst at the same time carrying as much salvage from Ashlee's wrecked pickup as she could.

After no more than a moment, Mark followed, weighted down with a similar load. Ashlee attempted to climb after them, but Stephen spun round and tossed a rope to her. He climbed the cliff as quickly as he could and then halled Ashlee up.

Meanwhile, Mark had spotted an abandoned truck by the side of the rode and had approached it. Not only was the driver's side door unlocked, but the keys were in the ignition.

"Looks like ka likes us today," he thought as he got in and started the engine.

He backed the truck as close to the edge of the cliff as he deemed safe, set the emergency break, got out, attached one of the ropes he carried to the rear bumper and descended the cliff. Before he'd gone ten feet, he drew his right gun and prepared to deal with the zombie waiting below. He never fired, though. The thing that had once been a possessed man was reaching for the rope ladder attached to the helicopter and doing its best to climb it.

"I think those Corporation fucks in the chopper are about to have a very shitty afternoon," Mark said, his voice carrying to the others.

The zombie made it half way up the ladder before someone in the helicopter blew a hole in its head, but in doing so, the pilot lost control of the vehicle. It plummeted toward the river, crashing and exploding a couple hundred feet up-stream from the rapidly sinking pickup.

"It's safe to come down," Mark called up to Alison and Stephen.

After four more trips down and then back up, everything that could be salvaged from Ashlee's truck was salvaged and the three gunslingers got into their new transport. After a quick look round to make sure there were no zombies lurking in the shadows that could possibly cause an unforeseen accident, Mark pulled out, doing nearly eighty.

During the first hour on the rode, Ashlee, with a bit of prompting from Stephen, who appeared to have been left somewhat out of the telepathic briefing and who wanted her distracted while he set her broken wrist and splinted it, told the gunslingers of the events that had culminated in her truck going over the cliff, hurled by some unseen force. She began with the first news reports which had stated that the city of Rainbow Falls, Alaska had been infiltrated by some form of new disease, followed quickly by another which stated that there had been some sort of accident at the near by nuclear power plant which had totally leveled the city, not that events to come would verify the official story. There was no doubt in Ashlee's mind that there had been some sort of outbreak, but not in Rainbow Falls itself. Soon after that, another report had been heard, stating that the dead were coming to life and committing acts of murder.

At first, the walking dead were only reported in areas near the former sight of Rainbow Falls, at least officially, but as far as Ashlee knew, the first outbreak had occurred in a small town near Anchorage, but as hours became days, the reports had grown in number, accompanied by video footage, most of which would turn out to have been faked, as the outbreak Ashlee had witnessed in Anchorage, the one from which there had been no going back, had come only after the news stories she had seen had been broadcast. That was not to say that there hadn't been outbreaks in other areas, though. Not all the footage had been faked, as the escalating death rate in the lower forty eight bore witness.

The trail of incidents was reported to be moving in all directions from the center which had supposedly been Rainbow Falls, causing more and more faked zombie footage, most of which appeared to have been shot in the same location, to see the light of day. Speculations as to the cause ran rampant. Everything from voodoo, bio terrorism and organisms from space took some of the blame for the increasing incidents, that was, those incidents that weren't obvious attempts to, as some people in the 90s would have said, "wag the dog." The president of the United States broadcast a warning to all terrorist organizations across the world, stating that if the zombies currently killing and eating loyal Americans didn't lie down decently dead within two days, every holy sight in the Middle East would be destroyed by nuclear missiles. The Middle Eastern nations, which had been reporting their own zombie trouble at the same time, retaliated with counter accusations that it was the "infidel" Americans who had perpetrated an act of terrorism, causing loyal Muslims to return from their graves, with an urge to consume nothing but other loyal Muslims, and if the dead faithful of Ala did not lie down decently dead with in thirty six hours, America was going to be one large slag pit.

Conspiracy theorists almost immediately began blaming an organization known only as the Corporation, saying that it was attempting to wipe out humanity, or take over the planet, or both at the same time, whilst broadcasting the bogus zombie footage to cover up the true areas of infection. Unlike a great many conspiracy theories Mark and Alison had heard, it appeared that the Corporation was very real and very powerful. It had first appeared during the final decade of the 20th century and by the year 2000 had become a secret mover of events both military and scientific. It was, by some, credited with the invention and possible ownership of the internet, the telecommunications networks and all news and information services, as evidence the bald-faced lies being broadcast on all major networks, and also with the creation of horrible weapons the likes of which no sane person would ever attempt to invent, let alone actually build and test.

The Corporation was, in this case, suspected by some, of the creation of a new virus, known simply as "X." The X virus supposedly had the ability to bring the dead back to a limited life, not to mention cause mutations in living humans.

"Now, isn't that interesting?" Mark thought, "it looks like the conspiracy theorists got it right for once in their collective lives."

No more than three days after the first report had been heard, television screens across America had shown a terrified news anchor informing the viewing public that the President of the United States, the First Lady, the Prime Minister of Canada and most of the staff of the Office of Emergency Preparedness and the federal Emergency Management Agency, as well as nearly twenty ladies and gentlemen of the press had been eaten alive in the White House East Room by zombies, followed by another which stated that everyone in Washington D.C. had met a similar fate. That footage had not been faked, as it would have been difficult for even the corporation to convincingly fake something like that, but that event had placed them in exactly the type of position they most likely had wanted to be in anyway.

After that, things fell apart rapidly. On the television screens of the world, more dead people got up and walked, but with a crucial difference. At first the zombies had only bitten living people who got too close, but as the crisis continued, the dead folks started trying to get close to the living folks. They had, it seemed, decided they liked what they were biting.

The zombies were characterized, not only by their habit of attempting to kill and eat the living, but also by the color of their eyes which alternated from black, when at rest or not on a trail, to a bloody, pulsing red. It appeared that the frequency of the pulses was a form of telltale as to the severity of the frenzy any particular zombie might be experiencing at any given time.

The infection appeared to be transmitted through the exchange of bodily fluids, such as blood or saliva, and once contracted there was no going back.

Although not all who were infected were doomed to become zombies. There had been some who had managed to control the mutative affects of the virus and in some cases, such as that of Niamh, there had been interesting results.

At this point, Mark began wondering what to do about Stephen. He had, after all, been bitten during his confrontation with the man from the Corporation helicopter. He could not, however, envision himself shooting Stephen. He hoped that ka would be kind and afford Stephen the same control over the infection that Niamh seemed to have, but there was the problem of Niamh herself. Yuon had half told, half shown him and Alison what had happened immediately before Ashlee's truck had gone over the cliff and he didn't want to picture Stephen suddenly going rogue and trying to kill them.

"There will be water if God wills it," he thought.

A day after the news of the death of most of the American and Canadian government officials, the Corporation had shown itself to be not only very real, but also very involved in what was happening. Its agents began systematically rounding up survivors. Most of them were shot on sight as infected, but some were taken away in covered trucks, possibly for the purposes of experimentation, or so said the short wave nuts. Shortly after this had started, Iyana, in her human form, had returned after a three year absence. She had explained that the corporation had been holding her prisoner and had been attempting to change her, by means of the same infection that was now doing its level best to empty the world, into some sort of superhuman.

That had been when Ashlee had seen her first actual zombies. The anchorage outbreak had occurred shortly after she, Iyana, and Iyana's husband Simon had arrived home from the airport. After an incident during which Ashlee's daughter had been bitten by a zombie and become one herself, Iyana had persuaded Ashlee to accompany her and Simon in their attempt to get out of the infected zone, but that had proved impossible.

After witnessing the deaths of nearly eighty fundamentalist Christians who had, for reasons known only to their insane leader, decided to hold their "End of the World, Hell-Fire" service in a cemetery, they had made their way, as best they could, toward the lower forty eight, in the hope that they would find some safe haven.

They had gotten as far as the Canadian border, where they had been stopped by Corporation agents, one of whom, a man Ashlee referred to as Allan, had been a tall, powerfully built, dark eyed man who fit the description of the man Stephen had shot. Another had gone by the name Alexander, and had informed Iyana of what the corporation had done, the bogus reports of the loss of Rainbow Falls, their attempt to test her by causing a supposedly controlled outbreak of X in Anchorage, and of similar outbreaks in the lower forty eight.

Before either Allan or any of the other Corporation agents could make a move against them, Niamh had somehow caused a mutation in herself that had ended with her having wings, possibly as a result of the close proximity of a large flock of infected birds. Simon had also spontaneously developed wings and he and Iyana had managed to pursue their daughter into the sky and bring her back to ground level. They had then somehow been teleported to another world for a brief time, where they had met a relatively young Miriana, who had accompanied them back to Earth, where Iyana had attempted to take on Allan or the thing inside him, something she had called Gulyan, single handedly. The attempt, unfortunately, had failed and had ended with her death, followed shortly thereafter by that of Simon. Ashlee had taken Niamh and had gone on, stopping the truck and ducking down when she had seen a huge bird-like creature whose feathers appeared to be made of some sort of dark metal carrying a dead child into the air, probably for the purposes of feeding itself. This creature had been followed by others of the same kind which had immediately begun descending toward the truck, perhaps sensing living flesh within.

"And then," she concluded, "Niamh went crazy and I thought she was going to attack me, but she flew away from me. After that, something shoved the truck over the cliff and then you three showed up just in time to keep Allan from killing us, or taking us, or whatever he meant to do with us."

"This Allan," Stephen said, "he was infected?"

"Yes," Ashlee said, "but not just infected. Something got into him."

"And I'll bet we all know what that something was," Alison said, making the shape of an open eye with two of her fingers.

Late the next morning, not that morning, afternoon, evening, or night had any real meaning any more, Mark altered their course.

"Why are we going this way?" Ashlee inquired.

"The truck's down to fumes," answered Mark, "if we don't gas up soon, we may as well just get out and invite a bunch of corpses round for an early Thanks Giving dinner. I don't like the idea of being stuck out in the middle of nowhere with those rejects from Diary of the Dead roaming all over the place just waiting to come over for a bite."

"From what?" Ashlee asked.

"You know," Mark said smiling, "you've got a serious case of culture lag going on there, Ashlee."

"What is this Diary of the Dead?" Stephen asked.

"It's a horror movie from our world," Mark explained, "we told you about movies, right?"

Stephen nodded.

"Well," Mark continued, "in this movie the dead came back to life, kind of like they're doing here, but nobody ever found out why. A bunch of people got killed and eaten by zombies, a bunch of zombies got shot in the head, and the survivors ended up trapped in a panic room, watching the zombies break into the house they had gone to for safety."

"What is a panic room?" Stephen asked.

"Sort of like a strong room," Mark explained, "nobody can get in or out once the doors are locked unless they know the code that opens them again."

"Ah," Stephen said.

A few minutes later, Mark turned the truck off the rode he had been following and entered a deserted town.

"How do we do this?" Alison asked.

"Mark and I will scout around and try to find supplies," Stephen said, "you stay in the carriage with Ashlee and Niamh."

"I'm more than capable of going out and looking for supplies," Ashlee said, "I've been doing my share of that since this whole thing started."

"You mean you usually are," Mark said, "but at the moment your wrist is sort of broken which means you couldn't handle a gun, that is if you learned to shoot the way cops are taught to. You know, holding your wrist with your other hand to steady it?"

"I'm perfectly capable…" Ashlee began again.

"Has Niamh been taught to shoot too?" Stephen inquired.

"No," Ashlee replied.

"Then someone needs to stay with her," Stephen said, "we don't know what we might find out there or what may find us, or for that matter what may find the carriage. Someone who can shoot needs to be here and since you can't shoot, Alison will stay here with you."

The two men exited the truck and began making their way through the empty streets. Mark knew why Stephen had elected to leave Alison in the truck rather than him. Niamh had taken to her and it was safer to leave her with someone she trusted.

As they got further and further from the truck, Mark's senses went on a higher and higher state of alert. They were now in enemy territory and could be attacked at any time from any direction. His hands stayed near his guns and his eyes scanned his surroundings constantly.

The gunslingers approached what had once been the town's shopping district. To their left stood a building with a sign over the door which read "Darlington's Hardware" in both English and Canadian French. To their right stood one with the sign that read "The Little Shopper."

"Bingo," Mark said, "we've just found our food supply."

"Who is this Bimbo," Stephen asked.

"That's Bingo," Mark laughed, "and it's a saying that means we've just found what we're looking for, at least part of it."

They approached the door to the building and Mark attempted to open it, but he had no luck. He then noticed that the window to the left of the door had been broken out. He led the way to said makeshift entrance and made his way carefully into the building, followed closely by Stephen.

Inside, the Little Shopper was dark and smelled of decaying meat. Mark hoped that said smell was coming from gone over meat in the cold cases and not zombies, but as they were in a world that was crawling with the living dead, it was more than likely a combination of both. After locating a shopping cart, Mark led the way past the empty check out counters and into one of the aisles, rooting in his pack and bringing out one of the flashlights he had found in Ashlee's truck and turning it on as he went. The aisle in question had been partially scraped clean, leaving only items nobody could possibly want in the current situation.

"I don't think this place will give us much," Mark thought as he scanned the half-empty shelves, seeing only garbage bags, zip lock bags, chip clips, and small sandwich bags that were, for some reason known only to the manufacturers, known as baggies. They moved to the next aisle and found themselves flanked by bags of what looked like potting soil, lawn food, and other gardening goods. The next aisle after that contained only barbecue supplies, charcoal, starter fluid, small barbecue grills, etc.

"We might need some of this stuff," Mark said, inspecting one of the grills.

"What are those?" Stephen asked.

"Barbecue grills," Mark explained, tapping the box containing the grill he had already selected, "you fill it with charcoal, light the stuff, and cook your food on top of it."

"Why not simply build a fire?" Stephen inquired.

"Because," Mark answered, "just in case you haven't noticed, we don't have any firewood. Not only that, we don't have any axes to chop down trees with, or the time to do it."

After Mark had grabbed four bags of charcoal and an equal number of cans of starter fluid, he and Stephen moved on. Eventually they found an aisle containing canned goods and Mark went along it, picking out can after can and putting some of them in the cart and others in his pack.

After the shelves in the canned goods aisle were completely bare, the gunslingers made their way toward the front of the store, but stopped at the sound of movement. They turned in the direction of the sound and saw three of the undead shambling slowly up an adjacent aisle.

"Sorry guys," Mark said conversationally and blew the heads off the zombies.

As they again approached the check out counters, Mark began scanning the shelves behind them.

"What are you looking for," Stephen asked.

"Cigarettes," Mark answered, "not to mention lighters. Even if they don't have any smokes here, we need something to light the charcoal with."

"Why not simply use a flint and steel?" Stephen asked.

"Because you don't want to get your hands that close to something soaked in starter fluid," mark explained, "if you tried to use a flint and steel to light something like that, you ought to just kiss your hands good-bye, to say nothing of half your arms."

As luck would have it, Mark found only two cartons of cigarettes, but as for lighters, he struck gold. He put the cigarettes and the nearly thirty lighters he found on the shelves into his pack.

"Now we've got everything," he said.

As they forced the cart out through the broken window and made their own way out, they were confronted by something Mark wasn't expecting to see, but something he should have expected. A small pack of dogs, or things that had once been dogs was approaching them with clumsy staggering deliberateness. The skin of these creatures was hairless, grey, and covered with slime. The stink of them hung in the air.

"Oh, wonderful," Mark said, drawing his guns, "zombie dogs. I should have known."

The zombie dogs continued to stagger toward the two humans, whose blood they could smell as clearly as the humans could smell the rot coming from them. Mark drew a bead on the lead creatures and squeezed off two shots from each gun. Four of the things fell dead, but the others kept coming. Stephen also had drawn and was now firing into the advancing ranks of undead beasts. One of the things, something that had probably once been someone's lap dog, leapt at Mark's left hand. Mark batted it away with the but of his left gun and put a bullet into the thing's head with his right. The gunslingers shot their way out of the parking lot of the Little Shopper and on up the street. Pack after pack of zombie dogs falling before their fire.

"If every zombie in town didn't know we were here before, they do now," Mark said as they approached the truck.

"What now?" Stephen asked.

"We've gotten as much food as we can here," Mark replied, "I'd say we gas up the truck and get out of here while the getting's good. I didn't see a gun shop or anywhere else that sold bullets before this zombie bull shit started and we don't have an unlimited supply."

"What of winter coats?" Stephen asked, "when we first arrived you were wanting one."

"I don't see a sign that says Winter Coats Are Us anywhere," Mark said, "and I think we've worn out our welcome in this town."

They located a filling station, and after Mark had broken the lock on one of the pumps, had succeeded in filling the truck's gas tank and were preparing to start out again when something huge moved on the edge of Mark's vision.

"What the fuck?" he said to no one in particular and his hands dipped, lightning quick for his guns.

The shape moved into sight. It appeared to be an enormous, formerly humanoid mutant. It was clad in what appeared to be black leather and sported a pair of extremely large guns. As Mark watched, the gigantic muty took aim at one of the dilapidated buildings and fired both of its weapons. There was a deafening roar as the building in question erupted into a fire ball.

"Oh Jesus Crotch Cricket Christ, now this is just fucking fantastic!" cried Mark, "not only do we have zombies shambling all over the place, but now we've got Nemesis too!"

"Who?" Ashlee asked, opening the truck's passenger door.

"Did I ever tell you you've got a serious case of culture lag, Ashlee?" Mark asked.

"I think we should run," Stephen said quietly.

"Where?" Mark fired back, his voice sharp with fear, "you can't get away from him!"

"How know you that that is true?" Stephen inquired, his voice not rising any higher than was necessary under the circumstances.

"Because I saw the goddamn movie!" Mark shouted.

"You told me before that movies weren't real," Stephen said calmly.

"Well then," Mark retorted, "that's one big bugger of a hallucination, with two very real guns containing very real bullets which are capable of doing some very real damage and that's a very real building that just got set on very real fire! Now I suggest we get back in the truck and get our very real asses the very real hell out of here before we end up very dead!"

"You said we couldn't escape it," Stephen said, his voice still calm.

"Then what would you suggest?" Mark asked, "that we just sit here and wait for that fire to put itself out like all unscheduled fires over a certain size are now required to do by law?"

"Where was this law written," Stephen inquired, "and who is the fool who wrote it?"

"Never mind," Mark said and swung into the truck.

Before he could even turn the key, he noticed that Niamh was making a hissing noise that he didn't associate with anything human, let alone a child. Before he could even do so much as blink, Niamh had turned on Alison and buried her teeth up to the gum line in Alison's right arm.

"Stop her!" Stephen cried, the thunder of command filling his voice.

Mark turned and tried to get hold of Niamh, but she bucked in Alison's arms, turned and attempted to bite him. Before she could, however, she seemed to calm and the hissing sound that had been escaping her lips ceased.

"I... I'm sorry," she said, looking at Alison, "I'm so sorry."

Over the next two days, Mark watched both Stephen and Alison. He noticed almost right away that neither of them showed signs of outward infection, but Alison began complaining of pain in her back and shoulders almost immediately.

They stopped in several more towns, but saw no more of the mutant they had seen in the first one, the one whose close presence had so maddened Niamh. They took on as many supplies as they could in each town, making sure they were gone before they could attract the attention of too many of the living dead. They, like the thing with the guns, the thing in black, seemed to agitate Niamh, to cause the infection in her to take over or at least attempt to.

There were, however, no further incidents, but Mark didn't like it. It was, as someone or other in a hundred jungle movies had said, too damn quiet. They all knew something was going to happen, but they figured it would have everything to do with the zombies. None of them suspected that it would have more to do with living people, some of whom were employed by the Corporation.

He stood on a cliffside, overlooking a scene of devastation. Anyone who saw him would have hauled ass in the other direction as fast as they could, but if he'd bothered to pursue them they could never outrun him, maybe even the fabled legend Marie couldn't.

But there was no one around for miles. The landscape was barren, hollow, wasted, a dying, infected land.

He was easily over seven feet tall, a hulking humanoid figure carved of rough stone, a figure Mark Rimer would have recognized immediately as the muty he and his ka-mates had seen during their first supply stop. His features were heavy and square and twisted; his mouth was like a lopsided gash showing long, pointed teeth. He was powerfully built and blocky, but everything about him was twisted, off, unnervingly, bizarrely, and terrifyingly deformed. The remains of his hair were jet-black and his skin was pale and cold, a sickly grey color, stretched taut across his deformed body. He didn't breathe now, though usually he did, it was only second nature and he didn't need to. But when he wasn't breathing, it meant that all trace, even the slightest one, of his lost humanity was gone, and one would be wise to be very, very afraid. It meant that he was pure cold now, pure nothing, soulless, empty, absolute ruler of the night, strong and unbreakable as the foundations of the earth, an absolute and terrifying alien, a bred and mutated killing machine. He wore a black cloak, concealing anything he carried, and heavy black boots. The cloak was a shroud about his deformed, twisted body. It hid the more terrible and grotesque of his deformities.

His most out-of-place, remarkable feature, though, were his eyes. They were clear, stunning silver-grey orbs, lances of icy fire. In a sapien man's face, they would have been beautiful. In his face, they were chilling, cold, soulless. Somehow, in his face, they emphasized his inhuman nature. They were darkening visibly, turning slowly black. Red lights alit in them and began to swirl, pulsing.

And then they were a solid, pulsing red.

In a move so fast it was a blur, he leapt from the cliffside and hit the rocky ground running. For his size and awkward shape, he was quite agile and blindingly fast...like a streak of shadowed lightning in the dark, moonless, starless night.

His speed and incredible strength were chillingly, coldly, cruelly beautiful, so terrible that it gave the phrase "if looks could kill" an all-new meaning. He was horribly ugly, so ugly that the ugliness itself was terrifying, unnerving, repulsive. He was darkness incarnate, and his eyes glowed with a red fire the like of which no world should ever see.

He was hunting, as he had been when he had encountered the five in the truck, of whom three had been "World-Walkers.", but he had covered a great deal of ground since then. As a matter of fact, he was almost back at the point from which he had originally set out.

He raced down the narrow valley with the sheer, easy, surefooted grace of a deadly cat. He could keep up this speed for hours if need be...and in such bad terrain, as well.

He was Ulich Maril, Dark Fire in the High Tongue. But the High Tongue hadn't been spoken on Earth in over a thousand years.

But by those who had made him, he was called Program Nightstalker, the latter part of the name he'd since adopted because his human name was forgotten. He had the strength to break a full-grown, two-hundred-pound man in half with his bare hands. Throughout the Dying Lands he was feared and hated, but his makers loved him, loved him in a terrible way. They had lost Marie, their precious Program Immortalis; this was their prize, or so they had thought following the actual destruction of rainbow Falls, during which Marie had well and truly slipped their grasp. This terrible, inhuman, unnatural killing machine had evaded them as well. Technically, all they could do was negotiate with him, and that was hard to do because he was unreasonable and thought he was indestructible, which was pretty much true, they may have made him, but he was no one's puppet.

Where others felt a person's life as a soul, he felt their life as the smell of their living blood, the pulse of their beating heart, a magnet most in his condition could not resist. Then again, most in his condition were mindless ... just because he was soulless did not mean he was mindless. They'd made the mistake with him they hadn't made with Marie, though...they had no way to track him until he came close enough for his unusual energies to be detected, and he was too good to do something like that. His strength, speed, endurance, and incorruptible determination were coupled with a chillingly cold, calculating intelligence, unreasonable and ruthless though it may have been. He was the worst thing this world had ever seen, and he both knew and enjoyed the fact.

He reached the blasted ruins of the small Alaskan town in which, less than a year ago, a few researchers had died, X had been released in massive amounts, and because of it, the world had come to an end.

He stopped in this place of his rebirth for a moment. If only he could remember ... He was aware that he was standing in the middle of a particularly intense patch of radiation; his enhanced senses told him so. He ignored it; the taint in his blood that made him what he was could resist it for the time being, and he'd know before he was in real danger.

He just couldn't remember. It bothered him, disturbed him deeply, that there was something he couldn't know, something he couldn't break, but even in his cold, alien awareness something told him to leave it.

And so he continued.

He moved more quietly but just as quickly, somehow gliding down the valley. Anyone who truly knew the full extent of his power, and not even the Corporation knew that; he had to keep tricks up his sleeve, didn't he?...would know what he was doing, a delicate telekinetic cushion and a bit of sound-wave manipulation. It wasn't difficult; he could blow people to bits with sound alone, or with telekinesis alone. But those were last resorts. More often than not, the Corporation, damn them and curse them to hell for eternity, managed to have eyes everywhere. He'd stick infected needles through those eyes if he could find all of them but they had that _annoying_ habit of slipping away so quickly! No, he decided...he'd do more than sticking infected needles in their eyes...far, far more. The thought was incredibly satisfying...but not enough, oh no, the most alien and primal and uncontrollable part of him would never find thoughts satisfying ...

So he let go and became the element of fire, and flew through the night...deadly, icily burning, a silent, glowing, black-enshrouded shadow, night incarnate in a glowing form, the epitome of pure, primal power ...

Marie sat up, gasping. She'd had this dream before...of Nightstalker, in his terrible form. She was somehow connected to his mind, she knew it. Though how ever she could have become connected to him was beyond her, knowing what he was.

"I'm that, too," she thought. "I'm just like Nightstalker, only I'm a prettier version, and I still have a human heart. Or don't I?" She'd seriously started questioning the latter lately. "Am I just like him, only with a different face?" In the darkness, she smiled humorlessly to herself.

She lay back down but she couldn't go to sleep. Her mind kept returning to that chilling, terrible form, those eyes ... There was something vaguely familiar about the eyes. She'd never really seen his eyes, she was afraid of what she'd see reflected there, and also if you got close enough and were that close long enough to look at his eyes you were surely dead. They could be green, or brown, more likely they were red, and full of a cold, knife-like mind. She shivered. She knew the look...because she'd seen into a mirror image of her own eyes and knew that that cold, keen, ruthless intelligence could be reflected there. "It's sickening, terrible," she thought. "I've gotten used to that. "That's sad. Then: I get used to that, too..."

Finally, she slept, but her dreams were troubled by red eyes staring out of the faces of the living dead, winged shapes that dove on the helpless, the dying, feeding on the world itself, a red presence that waited, an imprisoned entity whose madness was only equaled by its ancient evil.

"Marie!"

She rolled over and looked up into Sean's face. He was a small, slight man, so thin that one expected the slightest breath of wind to carry him away. His skin was so pale that if he were a foot taller, he, with his long black hair and moonlit skin, could have passed for sidhe royal.

Marie's senses were alert the instant Sean touched her, and even if she had been both deaf and blind she'd have recognized the rhythm of his energies and of his heart. Like Nightstalker, her primary sense was of people's blood flowing, heart pulsing, energies moving.

"Hello, Sean, where's Lila?" Marie stretched and stood in one fluid motion, rolled her sleeping bag round her pillow and tossed it to Sean, who caught it and stowed it away.

"Here." Lila stepped out of the predawn shadows. She was short and wiry and had a flyaway dandelion puff of brilliant red hair and sparkling emerald eyes. Marie had seen Lila's eyes sparkle with laughter before, but she hadn't seen that in months in anyone's eyes. Now, if anyone's eyes sparkled, it was with vengeance, anger, tears of grief, madness...or the red pulsing glow of infection. You could gauge the intensity of the frenzy and the hunger by the speed of the light's pulsation if you were quick enough to catch it before they tried to bite your throat out.

Marie was also slightly built, but taller than both of them. Slender and strong, she could easily run as fast and was as strong as Nightstalker, but she had the added advantage of not being terrifying. In fact, with her flawless, creamy-skinned, delicately boned, beautiful face and silky black hair, she looked innocent, even fragile, and certainly very young. But her eyes were ageless, cold in a distant way, eyes that knew pain and had once known happiness. They were a blue-gray, more blue and certainly with no gleaming silver tint. If you didn't look into her eyes, or look deeply enough to see her strength or feel her mind, she was almost childlike.

She missed Alex now more than ever, at times like these. God only knew...or didn't want to know, maybe...where Alex was. He'd gone away directly after the incident beneath the small Alaskan town of Rainbow Falls. They'd taken him away. ... Marie had known it would have been hopeless trying to get information out of Daniel and Janes, so she had given up finding out where he was. To her it was best to think he was dead. If Alex was in the wild, he could surely take care of himself; he'd always had that admirable determination and tough, unbeatable will to survive. And she was sure he'd find them, if he could. But if the Corporation still had him ...

No. Best not to think about that. Technically he'd be safe...safe from starvation, disease, mutants, zombies, cold, all that, but he wouldn't be safe from their horrible intentions.

And it was not in the times when his skills would have helped them, or when she cried...rarely, oh so rarely anymore, thanks to the numbness creeping through her mind...that she missed him the most. It was when she knew for certain that she couldn't remember how happiness felt that she wanted him there. Because then, maybe, she could feel something akin to happiness.

But it was no good to dwell on things. She kept her sanity by not thinking about Alex, not thinking about a world where there was grass and trees and flowers and sunlight and something resembling life.

Marie, Lila, and Sean packed up silently, and moved on.

The next night, Marie dreamed again, but this time it wasn't of Nightstalker. This time, as had so often happened to another of the Corporation's experimental subjects, she found herself sharing the mind and experiences of another. She allowed her mind to merge with that of the other, attempting to discover why she was being shown this, as she always did, as she had from the moment the visions first began, before Rainbow Falls, before the crash, before the dead.

"I told you, Jimmy Ray.I don't like that thing in here." Jolene slammed down a can of beans to make her point, turning to scowl at Jimmy Ray. "Them things is evil and I don't like 'em."

Jimmy Ray grinned and tapped ash into the Elvis at the Gates of Heaven ashtray. Bastard knew that it was Jolene's favorite. "It ain't hurtin' nothin', Jo. Look at it. It's too dumb to know it's even here."

Jolene reluctantly turned around. Jimmy Ray had caught the thing the last time he and the boys went out hunting. Damn if it weren't the ugliest thing she'd ever seen. Hard to believe it had ever been a woman.

"I don't want it in the trailer with me," she said, trying to make her voice sound less shaky. "What if it breaks loose?"

"It ain't gonna do nothin', Jo. Jesus Christ." Jimmy Ray sighed and ran a hand through his greasy hair. "I thought I could have some fun with it, is all."

Jolene rolled her eyes. "I told you I don't like you doin' that."

"Well what the hell else is there to do around here? Man's got to have some fun, don't he?"

Jolene couldn't look at Jimmy Ray as he grinned at her, disgusted by the man she'd had the bad luck to end up with. She remembered the time that dead kid had gotten through the blockade and stumbled into the trailer park. Jimmy Ray and his fellas had strung the boy up and had a good old time with him, using him for target practice with their bows and guns. Even some of the women had got in on the action, but some of the things they did to the kid were worse than anything the men could dream up.

It was just like Jimmy Ray said: nothin' else to do since them dead folks started getting up and walkin' around pretty as you please. TV didn't show diddly-shit anymore, and once they'd gotten the trailers into formation and arranged the guard watches and got all the details taken care of, there just wasn't nothing to do. You couldn't even go to the Sav-Mart that that was such a big loss.

Things were so much better back in the old days, when you could kill a person and by God they stayed dead.

But that was a long time ago, so long that Jolene had stopped keeping track of the days. Now every day was the same: wake up, kill dead folks, eat some godawful crap out of a can, kill more dead folk, and go to bed when the sun went down because there was nothing else to do. Most of the time she was bored stupid.

"Look at her," Jimmy Ray said, lighting another cigarette as he nodded toward the zombie chained in the corner. "Figure she knows what's goin' on?"

Some almost lost bit of intelligence shone in the woman's eyes as her mouth opened in a slanted, painful grimace and she moaned. Her skin was as glossy and slick as a snail's, her stomach a hollow hole beneath her tattered baby-doll t-shirt. She was a fresh dead, not as stinky as most of 'em, and if you looked real hard you could tell she used to be pretty once. Jolene didn't feel like looking that closely.

"Go get me them pliers," Jimmy Ray said and crushed the cigarette out in Elvis's face. "And the tin-snips. Ain't used them in a long while."

Jolene sighed, glancing one more time to the heap of moaning flesh in the corner, and went to do as Jimmy Ray commanded. Wasn't much else she could do.

"Why the hell do I have to clean this up?" Jolene yelled for Jimmy Ray's benefit as he lolled around in bed. In the morning sun, the mess seemed even worst than it had before they'd gone to bed. Chunks of moldy flesh were everywhere, twitching independently of each other as the zombie's head sat on the kitchen table and watched with hungry eyes. "And why the hell didn't you do her head like you said you was? Damn it, Jimmy know I hate when they look at me."

Jimmy Ray rolled onto his back, one skinny tattooed arm flung over his eyes. "Jolene, just clean the shit up and shut up, would ya? I'm tryin' to get some sleep."

"What about me?"

"What about you?" Jimmy Ray cracked open an eye and stared at her. "Listen, bitch.I'm trying to get some sleep. I'm the one got to go on the goddam Sav-Mart run in the morning."

"Nobody's makin' you go," Jolene muttered just loud enough for him to hear. Then, louder, "More like you're goin' to go screw around with that Naomi bitch."

"You just leave Naomi out of it."

Hit a nerve, Jolene thought with an almost perverse pleasure. So it was true, what all the gossip hens had clucked about. Jimmy Ray really was floozing around with that little bimbo three trailers down.

Jolene wasn't sure if she was relieved or crushed by his betrayal. Once, a long time ago, she'd actually thought she loved him. Now she couldn't imagine loving someone like Jimmy Ray Baisden. The reasons she stayed with him were practical, not romantic.

"Hell, if you wanna take my place when they go to Sav-Mart in the mornin'," Jimmy Ray said, interrupting himself with a ferocious yawn, "then fine by me. I'll tell Bill that I ain't going. Hell, I'd like to be able to sit around on my ass all day."

"Screw you, Jimmy Ray."

"Maybe later," he said and rolled onto his side again, instantly asleep.

Bastard. Jolene slammed the bedroom door shut and turned back to the mess in the kitchen. Snapping on a pair of pink-tinged rubber gloves, she started gathering up the bigger pieces, tossing them into a Hefty bag. The head on the table kept watching her, snapping every once in a while when Jolene got too close. And that irritated the piss out of Jolene. She grabbed the head by its long blond hair and held it up to eye level. There was something there in its eyes, something remaining deep inside its brain. Jolene could almost believe that it knew exactly what had happened to itself, that even now it realized that all was lost but refused to give up and just die.

"Life's a real bitch, ain't it?" Jolene said and smiled sadly, dropping the head into the Hefty bag. She had to get this cleaned up fast before Jimmy Ray woke up again and started hollering for breakfast.

"What's goin' on?" Jolene asked as she tossed the garbage bag onto the constantly smoldering bonfire. Her friend and neighbor, Gerdie, was distracted by a gathering in front of Bill Varney's trailer.

"Somethin' about the Sav-Mart run. Bill heard that the place got broke into." Gerdie craned her neck to see over the crowd. "Jimmy Ray goin'?"

" I could go in his place if I wanted."

"Are you?"

Jolene shrugged. "Might. Don't know yet. I'm bored as hell up in that trailer."

"Looks like y'all had somethin' to do last night." Gerdie eyed the garbage bag as the plastic curled and melted away, revealing the zombie girl's head. Damn bitch was still trying to take a bite out of something. "Ned brought one home a few days ago, just to play around with. You ain't never seen such a mess."

"Tell me about it. They don't care about messin' up the linoleum or nothin'." Jolene wrapped her arms around herself and shivered. " be winter 'fore too long."

"Heard we might have snow for Halloween. Prob'ly why Bill's wanting to do the Sav-Mart run sooner instead of later. Food supply's gettin' low." Gerdie sniffed, then spat onto the burning pile. " have to end up eatin' them things if we ain't careful."

Jolene made a face, could feel her stomach churn at the very thought of eating one of the dead folk. "I'd just as soon starve, thank you."

Gerdie flashed her a grin that wasn't entirely friendly. "We'd have to just eat you, then, wouldn't we?"

A chill trickled down Jolene's spine, but she forced herself to return the smile and keep acting friendly. Nowadays, it didn't pay to piss anybody off. You never knew when they might decide to cry zombie and blow your head off. Nobody was giving too much of a damn who got killed lately anyway.

"I'd best go talk to Bill about the run," Jolene said and smiled again, making her exit. Gerdie barely noticed she was gone; the older woman was busy staring at the flames as they licked and ate the pieces of zombies who'd had the bad luck to cross into the perimeter last night.

Jolene had heard the gunshots, but ignored them; after a while, you just didn't pay attention to it. Jolene made her way across the commons area of the trailer park, remembering the way it used to be. Right after the dead folk started coming back, Bill Varney had gotten everyone together and proposed his idea of doing a wagon-train number with the trailers, circling them to keep the zombies out. He'd been real smart to do it before the dead folk found their way out into the boonies. By the time the first zombies popped up, the outer perimeter of empty trailers was in place and everybody was armed to the teeth, just waiting to kick some dead ass. Luckily, they were so far out of the way that they didn't have to worry about huge bands of zombies stumbling onto them. Nobody knew they were out there.

There were only fifteen trailers in the inner circle. Most folks up and ran once they heard what was going on, thought it'd be better to be out on the road and take their chances. Jolene couldn't understand their thinking. Surely it was better to have one safe place, with lots of guns and men and protection, than to be out there on your own.

Things weren't really so different now than they were back in the olden days, when a gun and a man were all a woman really needed. Jolene liked the fact that she had one of the biggest, meanest, son-of-a-bitches in the trailer park as her man, and she liked the status that gave her among the other women. They envied her because of Jimmy Ray, and Jolene never forgot it, even when he pulled stunts like he had last night. She knew that despite it all, she was lucky, and she knew that it wouldn't take too awful much to change that luck.

Especially when a guttersnipe like Naomi White waited in the wings to take her place.

"Hey, Bill.?" She caught herself sweetening her accent, softening her voice, because she knew all too well how Bill Varney felt about women. He liked them quiet, stupid, and obedient, and woe be unto any smart-mouthed bitch who tried to stand up to him. Jolene had felt the backside of his hand many a time. Bill simply would not abide a mouthy woman.

Bill turned around, hands stuffed into the pockets of a corduroy jacket that was at least two sizes too small for his huge belly. His face puckered with irritated distaste when he saw her. "What do you want, Jolene?"

Jolene smiled and lowered her head, keeping her eyes downcast. She knew how to play him now: be polite and sweet and maybe let him take her back to his trailer for an hour or two. She'd been with him before, back when all the men were deciding what woman they wanted, and knew exactly what she needed to do to get her way.

"Bill.I was just wonderin' if maybe I could go with y'all." She shyly glanced up at him. "On the Sav-Mart run."

Bill snorted. "Hell, no."

She knew he was going to say that. "Well, Jimmy Ray's not feelin' real good and he said if I wanted I could go and take his place and-"

"And since when is Jimmy Ray Baisden the boss of this place?" Bill glared at Jolene, his jowls wobbling as his cheeks darkened. She'd never seen him look so mad before, not even the time she'd mouthed off to his wife about how bad he was in bed. "Lord God almighty," he muttered. "I swear I ought to just feed some of you to the zombies and be done with you."

"I'm sorry, Bill." Jolene took a chance and moved closer to him, being sure to push out her chest and keep her expression as sorrowful as possible. "I didn't mean to get you all upset."

Bill didn't say anything, but Jolene could read the look in his eye. He wanted to see how far she'd go to try to get her way. She'd expected that, too.

"." He hawked up a gob of phlegm and spat into the dirt. "I don't like the position you're puttin' me in, Jolene. You know I ain't able to spare nobody on one of these runs."

"I know, Bill."

Bill stared at her for a minute, narrow eyes squinting even more as he sized her up. "You show up in the morning with Jimmy Ray's shotgun and all the ammo you can carry. And I want you to know that I won't hesitate to put a round between your eyes if you so much as get scratched by one of 'em fuckers. You got me?"

Jolene smiled. "I got you."

Bill nodded, then grabbed hold of Jolene's butt, never changing expressions as he glared off into the distance. "Now get your ass up to my trailer so we can work out the rest of the deal."

Jolene's smile faltered, but she managed to catch herself before the disgust showed. "Sure thing, Bill."

He gave her another squeeze, then walked away, not even bothering to look at her again. But that was to be expected. That was the way things were now.

Jolene went to his trailer and waited.

A half-hour later, it was mercifully over. A hundred extra pounds and a gut full of stale beer made Bill less than a stallion, and he'd taken out his frustration on her with his fists. The beating wasn't any worse than she'd experienced at the hands of Jimmy Ray-or even her daddy, for that matter-so she'd closed her eyes and waited for him to tire himself out. Luckily, a couple of jabs to her belly and an open-handed slap to her cheek were all Bill could muster.

At least this time the bruises wouldn't show.

Jolene took her time as she walked back to her trailer, enjoying the feel of the cold air on her burning skin. The scent of smoke from the bonfire still hung heavy in the air. She tried to tell herself that all she smelled was burning leaves, tried not to think about the other things that had been thrown onto the bonfire.

But it was there. The smell of roasting flesh, the smell that was so like the scent of baked ham that it could almost make your mouth water if you didn't know what you were smelling.

The thought, as well as the memory of Bill's fumbling, violent hands on her body, made Jolene's stomach lurch. She doubled over at the corner of her trailer, bracing herself with one hand against the rusted metal, gagging up nothing but phlegm as she gave in to the nausea. She stood like that for a few moments, her head hanging low, gulping in foul-tasting air as she fought to settle her raging stomach.

And that's when she noticed that the trailer was rocking. Not much, just a little. Just enough.

And she heard the sound of Jimmy Ray doing what Jimmy Ray only thought he did best.

Jolene went cold. Not because of what Jimmy Ray was doing, but because of what that now meant. She had been deposed as his woman. Her tenuous power was now struck down completely. Because he had taken up with someone else-most likely that Naomi bitch-Jolene was now at the mercy of the rest of the trailer court. She no longer had a man to protect her.

But that didn't mean she had to let them know how much the thought of being alone terrified her. They'd be on her like a pack of rabid dogs if they had any idea how vulnerable she was.

Jolene spat into the dirt once more, clearing her mouth of the last of the bile-flavored phlegm, and marched into the trailer, slamming the door behind her, stomping through the hallway to the bedroom. Jimmy Ray jumped a foot when she pushed through the bedroom door, and Naomi let out a surprised scream, but Jolene didn't even look at them. She grabbed a battered knapsack that had once belonged to her brother and started shoving her things into it, so blinded by rage and fear that she barely knew what she was picking up.

Jimmy Ray and Naomi made gobbling sounds of indignation that Jolene completely ignored. She stuffed blouses, jeans, underwear, socks into the bag, leaving the dresser drawers open, rattling hangers in the closet. What she couldn't fit in the bag she just clutched close in her arms.

And when she was through, she walked right out of the bedroom without even a glance at Jimmy Ray. Naomi, holding the threadbare blanket up to her scrawny chest, gaped at Jolene with wide eyes, as if she expected her to explode.

Jolene just kept walking. There was nothing left for her here.

One of the trailers on the outer perimeter was empty, so Jolene dumped her stuff in there. It'd be good enough for a few days, until she could sweet talk her way into the bed of one of the men. A few of them had taken to keeping several 'wives', so it wouldn't take long for Jolene to move in on one of them. She saw the way they looked at her, the way they watched her when she was with Jimmy Ray.

And even though she wasn't crazy about the thought of some new goon taking up where Jimmy Ray left off, she'd resigned herself to it. That was just the way things were now. The way they had to be.

The trailer was fairly secure, so she wasn't afraid to be there alone. Hell, it'd been so long since she'd actually been by herself that the feeling was almost intoxicating. No picking up Jimmy Ray's shit-streaked underwear. No cooking only the foods he liked. No jumping up to do as he commanded every time he wanted a beer or a quick roll in bed.

She didn't know what to do with herself.

Whoever had owned the trailer before the dead folks rose up had taken pretty good care of the place-hell, compared to Jimmy Ray's trailer, this was a palace. The furniture was dusty but nice, and the bed was king-sized. The first thing Jolene did-after checking the strength of the boards on the windows and making sure that the door was double-locked and dead-bolted-was rummage around the linen closet for clean sheets. Then she made up the bed, crawling into it fully-clothed, sprawling with her arms and legs spread to take up every inch of room, wallowing in the fact that she could have the whole bed to herself instead of the sliver on the edge that Jimmy Ray had always allowed her.

It felt so good to be alone that for a few moments, she forgot about the fact that dead people walked around just outside their trailer camp. She forgot about the fact that now that she didn't have a man to protect her, she'd be at the whim of every guy in the camp. She forgot about all that as she drifted into a sound, dreamless sleep.

Because it felt good to be by herself. Better than she'd ever imagined it might feel.

"Okay, 's how it's gonna go." Bill slung his shotgun over his shoulder as he looked out at the group. He met Jolene's stare for a half-second before his gaze slithered away. "Stay in a group once we get out of the van. Keep your ammo close. No safeties on the guns. I don't want a bunch of them assholes coming at us and catching us with empty chambers. You watch everybody else's back and they'll watch yours."

In the pre-dawn chill, Jolene shivered even though she wore two sweaters beneath an old camo jacket she'd found in her new trailer. In a sling over her shoulder, the shotgun that Bill had given her felt unusually heavy, and the bag of shells hanging at her waist seemed to weigh a hundred pounds. She just hoped she'd be able to run if it came to that.

"Like I said," Bill continued, "we're gonna get out of the van and form a circle, guns out. Shoot any fucker that gets close. Once we get into the store, we separate into two groups of three. Everybody knows their partners, and you know what area of the store to hit. Follow your lists and don't get anything that ain't on it. I want one person to gather the goods while the other two watch their back."

Jolene's throat felt like it was closing up, her tongue thick and woolly in her mouth. Bill had led these Sav-Mart runs a half-dozen times and had only lost a couple of guys, but all of a sudden she didn't trust his so-called leadership. She had no real reason to feel that way, did.

"You got twenty minutes to get your shit and get out." Bill hitched his pants up and adjusted the wide buckle of his belt beneath the overhanging shelf of his stomach. "We meet at the front of the store. Unless a window blew in or a door got opened, there shouldn't be too many of 'em waiting for us inside. Everybody ready? Let's move out."

The four guys around Jolene ran to the van, acting like they were getting ready to go squirrel hunting for the weekend. She knew all of them: Buddy Vance, just barely out of his late teens but whose face was still swollen with yellow-headed pimples; Ray Howser, who went to junior high with Jimmy Ray and always tried to touch Jolene when nobody was watching; Ned Gordon, Gerdie's husband and a world-class asshole alcoholic; and old Carl Yancy, one of Jolene's daddy's best friends and a lecher through and through. Why anyone trusted these four, along with Bill, to bring back supplies for the camp was beyond her. She was amazed they managed to get through a raid without shooting themselves.

Jolene glanced back to the camp, to the women who watched her with narrow eyes, and knew what their opinion of her was. She was getting too uppity, daring to think that she could hold her own with the men. That kind of thing just wasn't done anymore. For a second, she wanted to go to Bill and tell him to just nevermind, that she didn't want to go after all.

But that wasn't gonna happen. She'd put up with too much shit from Jimmy Ray and Bill and Gerdie and every other jerkwad in the camp for way too long. Getting to go on the raid wasn't much, but damn if it wasn't more than she'd had. And now that she was on her own, she needed to prove that she could take care of herself. It might make a big difference in how she was treated when they returned.

Jolene climbed into the van and laid her shotgun across her knees, closing her eyes for a second as the side door slammed shut. She hadn't been out of the camp since the day the dead folk started coming back, and she didn't know what to expect once the trailers were moved and they went back to the outside world again.

If the world was still there.

They hit the first pocket of dead folk about a mile outside the camp, just as the sun was beginning to make its way over the mountaintops. There were about ten of them, all dirty and grungy and half-naked, shuffling down the middle of the highway, doing that stupid deadhead walk that made them look almost comical. The sight of them both thrilled and frightened Jolene. It was her first conflict. Her first test. She gripped the shotgun tightly, ready for the zombies to attack the van.

"You fellas ready for some action?" Bill shouted as he drove. All the guys around Jolene roared their approval. Jolene licked her lips and tried to calm down. She could shoot straight and run. That was all a person needed to know how to do.

They were almost on the zombies now. Soon they'd be swarming over the van, slamming filthy hands against the windows, pressing their open mouths to the glass as they tried to chew their way through. Then they'd have to fight and-

And Bill plowed through them like bowling pins. Never even slowed down.

As the men whoo-hooed and whistled, Jolene twisted in her seat and watched the decaying rubble of the zombies smack the pavement like wet confetti. They were much more fragile than she'd expected. She knew the ones Jimmy Ray brought home were fairly easy to mess with, somehow she'd expected the zombies in the wild to be tougher. Smarter, maybe.

But they weren't. They were just dumb old bags of meat.

For the first time since deciding to make the Sav-Mart run, Jolene relaxed. Maybe this was gonna be easy.

"This is it, boys." Bill weaved the van through the skeletons of abandoned cars, cresting the hill that overlooked the Sav-Mart. "Ain't seen this place in a while, have we?"

Buddy Vance grinned and spat a gob of chaw into a paper cup. "They got any porno up in there?"

"Naw, not here." Bill sounded almost disappointed. "Got beer though, and cigs." He looked into the rearview mirror and caught Jolene's gaze. "' do we need porno for when we got us a prime piece sitting right here with us?"

Jolene felt her stomach drop and her bile rise all at the same time. She didn't much like the tone of Bill's voice, and she definitely didn't like the way the other fellas were looking at her now. It was like he'd flipped a switch in their heads.

She cradled the shotgun close and kept her mouth shut. Maybe he was joking. The man had no sense of humor, he was just joking anyway.

"Old Jimmy Ray won't like anybody messing with his woman," Roy said. Roy had blond hair and a billy-goat beard, and when he leaned in too close to Jolene she caught a whiff of rotted teeth and stale beer.

"She ain't Jimmy Ray's woman no more," Bill said as he drove into the Sav-Mart parking lot. "Ain't that right, sweetheart?"

Zombies were everywhere-crawling out of abandoned cars, stumbling through the parking lot aisles, throwing themselves against the closed glass doors of the store, but Jolene was only barely aware of them now, more afraid of the men around her than the monsters outside.

"Me and Jimmy Ray had us a little talk last night." Bill's piggish eyes met hers in the mirror again. "He's done with ol' Jolene. Said she was getting too mouthy, too smart-ass, so he went and got him some fresh meat. Said we could do whatever we wanted to do with this little lady."

Jolene saw the smile on Bill's face, the leers on the faces of the four men around her, and suddenly understood why Bill had allowed her to come along on the raid. Easier to take care of the problem. They could do whatever they wanted to her, then go back to the camp and say that she got herself killed because she was just a stupid woman who was out of her league. And nobody would care. Sorry ass bastards.

" shame Jimmy Ray didn't feel like makin' it this morning," Bill said, backing the van up to the open doors. He pulled in at an angle, pinning a female zombie against the concrete wall and crushing her. The zombie flailed her arms, still baring her teeth and trying to scrabble her way free, but nobody was paying much attention to what was going on outside the van.

Jolene tasted metal, felt her spit flow until it flooded her mouth and gagged her.

"So this is how it's gonna go down," Bill said, smiling as he turned in his seat and stared at Jolene head on. "We are gonna march your skinny ass inside and find us a nice office with a good lock on the door. Then me and the boys are gonna do our thing and then, the dead folk are gonna get whatever's left." Bill's smile turned even meaner. "But don't worry, Jolene. Somebody'll put a bullet 'tween those pretty little eyes before you come back. Promise."

Jolene could only stare at him. Her entire body felt hollow, icy. She felt the stares of the men around her, knew what they were thinking, what they were planning, and wondered how many shots she could get off before they overwhelmed her. Part of her couldn't begin to understand why they were doing this to her now. She knew these guys, had lived with them in the trailer park for years, had grown up with some of them. She looked them each in the eye, silently begging them to realize what they were doing.

And nothing changed.

"Come on," Bill said gruffly. "We're wastin' daylight. Let's go."

Before Jolene knew what was happening, Buddy was sliding open the van door, heedless of the rush of rotted arms that suddenly filled the van. The men easily held them off with well-placed shots, laughing as they nudged the zombies away with the barrels of their guns. As goat-bearded Roy grabbed her arm, Jolene felt one of the dead folk brush her free hand; she cried out at its touch-so cold and vaguely slimy-as she recoiled backwards, right into Roy's lap. He laughed in her face, blasting her with that dead meat smell, and Jolene could instantly imagine him on top of her, forcing himself in her.

In a panic, she launched herself off Roy and into the grasping mass of arms. She went into them without hesitation, turning off her mind as she raised the shotgun and blasted whatever stood in front of her. A zombie in a flannel shirt went down, followed by a woman with curlers in her hair and fuzzy slippers on her feet. The other zombies backed off, something like comprehension dawning in their glazed eyes.

She was only dimly aware of the men's cheated shouts from the van, only vaguely aware of the hungry moans of the zombies as they tried to catch up with her. Instead she sprinted across the parking lot, heading for the second set of doors that led into the supermarket area of the store. There were only a few zombies between her and those doors, and she'd damn sure rather have their dead hands on her than Roy's.

Bullets whined past her and she knew that the fellas weren't aiming for zombies. She zig-zagged through the dead folks, her heartbeat pounding in her ears, her breath ragged and almost painful. As she got closer to the second set of doors, she could see that vandals had broken through them, opening the place up to the zombies as well as themselves. Didn't matter. Inside the store there'd be places to hide.

Jolene squeezed through the broken glass, hoping there wouldn't be something waiting on the other side.

So far so good.

The place was so quiet she could hear the quiet buzz of flies, the soft scuff of zombie footsteps somewhere in the distance. Every few seconds one of them moaned and sent a shiver down her back. They sounded so damn hungry.

Jolene shifted the shotgun in her arms and edged along the wall, waiting for her eyes to adjust to the darkness. If a zombie came up on her now she'd be in a world of hurt; the place stank so bad she wouldn't even be able to smell one sneaking up on her. And that rank that Jolene had to clench her teeth and keep swallowing rapidly so she wouldn't puke all over the place. The zombies had risen during Sav-Mart's peak shopping hours, which meant that half-chewed carcasses had been left to rot in the aisles. The ones that hadn't been too badly mauled rose up again, of there was still plenty enough left to raise a stink.

The darkness grayed until she could finally make out faint shapes. To her right was the abandoned deli counter. To her left, the shopping buggy area. Nothing seemed to be moving in her immediate vicinity, although she could hear the faint shouts of the guys. They'd be inside the store in just a few minutes.

She moved slowly, feeling ahead of her with each step. If she remembered the layout of the store, she could keep to the right and get to an exit. Maybe she could find an office to hide in for a while. Grab some canned food and a couple of bottles of water, hole up in a locked room, wait this whole thing out. Those idiots were more than likely to give up looking for her after a while anyway. They'd go back to the trailer park and she would.

She'd what? Where'd she have to go now? Jimmy Ray had sold her out to those yahoos, so he obviously didn't want her that there was much to go back to, anyway. Problem was, she didn't have much in the way of ammo, so she couldn't stay on the run indefinitely. Her only hope was to stay in one piece long enough to find some more survivors-bikers, maybe-and get herself another man to take care of her. Then she'd be okay.

She just had to get through this first.

Glass shattered from the front of the store, and Jolene knew that Bill and his lapdogs had lost their patience with the game. They'd ruined the place-now it would be picked clean by any survivors wandering through-but there wasn't much left in the way of supplies, anyway. All the frozen food had long since gone over, and most of the canned stuff was gone. Jolene passed the bread section and caught a whiff of the green scent of mold.

Just keep on going, she told herself, scanning all around her as she kept her back to the wall. Keep on going.

Something moved to her left and she automatically pulled the shotgun up, drawing a bead before she could even identify her target. A little girl stumbled over the hem of her nightgown, her eyes glowing like a cat's in the dimness of the store. Most of the flesh from the girl's throat was gone, so her head bobbed from side to side, front to back, as she walked, her little mouth opening and closing, her little teeth snapping together like a steel trap.

For a moment Jolene couldn't move. She'd never seen a zombie kid before. Until this moment, she hadn't even given much thought to dead kids. In the back of her mind, she guessed she'd somehow thought they were exempt from this whole nightmare. Bad stuff couldn't happen to little kids.

But it did. And it had.

The little girl dragged a blood-splattered teddy bear, her fingers tangled in its ratty bow tie. Her nightgown had Raggedy Ann's face on it.

And she had no throat. The kid had no fucking throat.

Jolene didn't dare fire, even if she could have made herself pull the trigger. Despite everything, she knew she couldn't shoot a kid. Even if the kid was already dead.

Jolene kept moving, keeping an eye on the girl, hoping she'd just lose interest in her. As she inched deeper into the store, she saw more of the zombies stumbling around, each of them lost in their own misery. So far none of them had caught her scent for the little girl. The smell of all the rotting meat disguised Jolene's own sweaty stink-which was a small blessing she supposed. At least it bought her a little more time.

Gunshots blasted through the store and Jolene froze for a moment, tearing her attention away from the dead girl as she desperately tried to get an idea of where Bill and his guys were. They'd seen her come in through the second set of doors, which meant they probably had a pretty good sense of just about where'd she'd be. She could hear them shouting to each other, laughing as gunfire echoed. They were stirring up the zombies, agitating them into louder moans. The dead folk were coming out of hiding now, appearing almost from nowhere as they stepped out of darkened aisles and rose up from pools of shadows.

Any second now they'd sense her. Then there wouldn't be enough time to do anything but die.

"Jolene!" Bill's shout cut the silence, sounding closer than Jolene liked. "You'd best get your ass out here right now, girl. Ain't nobody playin' with ya now."

The zombies turned toward his voice like flowers turning to the sun. They knew the sound of fresh meat when they heard it.

Except for the little girl. She kept her eyes on the prize, staring at Jolene as she continued to stumble closer.

Jolene started moving again, shuffling sideways as quietly and quickly as she could manage. Sweat burned her eyes, rolled down her sides and back. There was a backroom here somewhere.a loading dock or something. She remembered it was right in the middle of the meat department.

She peered ahead in the gloom, looking for the opening. She saw a wide doorway between the freezers. Two male zombies stood just in front of it, swaying gently. Waiting for her.

Behind her, the little girl gained a few more feet. She was close enough now that Jolene could see straight through her throat to the dull whiteness of her spine.

Jolene slowly turned the shotgun in her hands, gripping the cool barrel with sweaty hands. If she fired, she'd bring Bill and the boys running. Best she could do was take a few swings and hope for a solid hit.

Heart stuttering, then pounding almost painfully, Jolene took a step closer to the little girl. Poor little looked so young.

The girl lunged, all teeth and drool, and Jolene reacted without thinking, swinging the shotgun with all the strength she had. It connected wetly, sinking into the girl's rotted pumpkin of a skull, and the dark light instantly went out of her eyes.

She dropped in a heap, and Jolene nearly joined her. She couldn't do this. Even though the people were dead, even though they were trying to eat her, she couldn't do this.

But this was the world now. A world where you had to run and hide and forage and steal and kill if you wanted to survive. You were either dead or alive, and damned either way.

Tears threatened to blur Jolene's vision, but she forced them away. The noise Bill and the others were making was getting too close now. And the zombies were too animated, too alert.

Too hungry.

Jolene felt panic, cold and thick, rising up inside her as she stood helplessly over the body of the dead little girl. She didn't know what to do. There were too many zombies, too many of Bill's men. Either way she ran, she'd more than likely die.

She raised the shotgun. It'd be so easy to just fit that barrel against her forehead and pull the trigger and.

And what? Heaven? Hell? Nothing? Would death be worse than life?

With her luck, it would. Her luck had landed her in the middle of that damned trailer park hell. Her luck had brought Jimmy Ray and his pliers and tin snips and fists into her life. Her luck was shit, and she didn't trust it anymore.

Hell with it.

Jolene ran away from the meat department, away from the swinging doors that led to the offices, away from the sound of Bill's shouts. She kept the gun cocked and ready, held close to her chest as she silently moved through the corpse-strewn aisles. Bill would find the body of that little girl and know that she had put her down; Jolene just hoped that he assumed she'd gone for the obvious safety of the offices.

Her foot squelched into something slippery and she nearly lost her balance, slamming her hip painfully into the metal shelves as she caught herself. In the dimness she could see that she had made it into the sporting goods section-no food smells here, so there weren't as many zombies milling about. She leaned against the shelves for a minute, trying to keep her breathing as quiet and steady as she could, looking at everything except what had caused her to stumble. This area hadn't been as badly looted as the others, probably because it was so deep inside the store. And because there was nothing immediately useful to looters, like food or.

Jolene straightened up as she realized what she had found.

Leaning the shotgun against the shelves, she moved as fast as she could, grabbing a couple of backpacks, a sleeping bag roll, a lantern and oil, boxes of matches, a thick coil of nylon rope. She shoved a folded one-man tent into the backpack, as well as hunting knives and an industrial strength can opener. She took one of the bigger knives and slid it down the front of her jeans, shivering at the feel of the cold leather sheath. Then she pulled on one of the backpacks. It rested high on her back, pulling her shoulders straight, aching the base of her spine, but its weight felt good and comforting. Slinging the other heavy pack over one shoulder, she scooped up the shotgun and an empty backpack. As she made her way down the aisle, she grabbed a baseball bat: a heavy Louisville Slugger that swung like a dream.

Then she hit the aisles, tossing cans of Spam and beans and anything else she could find into the empty backpack. She was reaching for a dented can of tuna when a zombie snuck up behind her, revealing itself only by a hungry moan. Without a second thought, Jolene whirled around and slammed the bat into its skull, knocking the thing to the floor. The only sound was the crunchy crack of the wood against bone, not enough to draw attention.

Jolene smiled to herself. The bat was an excellent idea. Puts 'em down without wasting ammo, quick and quiet.

She finished filling the pack and slung it over her shoulder with the other. The weight slowed her down, but that was okay. Her idea would work. Had to work. And if it didn't, then it didn't matter just how damn heavy the pack was, anyway. All Jolene knew was that she wasn't going to rot away in the middle of goddam Sav-Mart while Bill and those pigs went back to the trailer park and whooped it up. And she wasn't going to sit around waiting for somebody to save her ass, either. For the first time in her life, she understood that there were no princes to carry you over the rainbow and into the happily ever after.

She'd have to carry her own damn ass. And she'd either do it or die trying. Simple as that.

"Jolene! You stupid bitch! Get your ass out here now, goddam it!"

Bill's voice was close enough to make Jolene drop to her haunches behind a display of dog food. She peeked over the edge of the bags and saw Bill moving just ahead of her, heading back to the front of the store. The other four men had split off, but Jolene had the feeling they weren't too far away. Probably closing in on her like a pack of wolves.

Jolene glanced at the baseball bat. She could do this. Easily.

Bill and the others had left the van parked close to the shattered glass doors, only a hundred or so yards from where Jolene stood. A few zombies staggered between her and the van, but their gait was so slow and jerky that she had no doubt she could get past them easily.

She could go now. She could run out those doors and disappear into the hills and Bill and Jimmy Ray would never be able to find her. There were lots of mountains to get lost in, lots of caves and abandoned houses where she could set up camp.

The bright sunlight of dawn poured in through the glass doors. She could go. She could run and go now and leave Bill in a world of shit.

But then she wouldn't have the small pleasure of seeing him die. And that one fact made a whole lot of chances worth taking.

Jolene moved before she could change her mind, zig-zagging through the zombies. One of them, an old woman, stepped right in Jolene's way. The woman's flat eyes glowed, her mouth toothless and gaping.

She went down with one swing of the bat.

Jolene shrugged out of the backpacks and left them leaning against the doors. Three zombies stood between her and the rest of the store. Three raggedy-ass, broke-down bags of bone. Easy. She made sure the shotgun was secure in its shoulder-sling, its weight deeply comforting against her back, and gripped the bat with both hands. Time to go.

One of the zombies, a guy who looked like he'd been a little too well fed before all the shit came down, stumbled closer to her, his mouth open and drooling as he reached for her with greedy hands. Jolene waited until he was almost able to touch then she swung the bat wide, catching him just above the shoulders and knocking his head almost completely off. It dangled upside down over his back, held fast by a few rotted tendons. Jolene pushed him away with the bat, cringing when her knuckles accidentally brushed against his body. The zombie fell onto its stomach and lay helpless on the floor, still reaching for her.

Jolene fought back a gag and took a shallow breath, calming her nerves before the second of the zombies staggered her way. This one had been a young girl, probably pretty once. Now her long blonde hair hung in tangled clumps, clotted with rusty dried blood, skinned completely away just over her right ear, where mottled gray-black brain matter peeked through. The girl's face had dried like tanned leather, lips peeled back to reveal braces on sharp yellow teeth. One eye was gone, deflated in its socket like a burst balloon.

They just kept getting worse. Jolene swung the bat again, splitting the girl's head with one blow. The girl dropped, and Jolene felt her stomach lurch, bile burning its way up her throat. She spat to clear her mouth, unable to allow herself the luxury of vomiting. The stench of the zombies seemed to get even stronger when they were put down. It reminded Jolene of when she was younger and she and her brother would kill stinkbugs, just to see if they'd smell worse after being squished.

The sudden memory stung. She and Robbie hadn't seen each other for years-not since she'd taken up with Jimmy Ray over her family's objections. The last time she saw Robbie they'd fought over her relationship with Jimmy. Then Robbie moved down to the southern part of the state with his wife and kids and that'd been the last she'd seen of him. It hadn't been a good way to part. Not a good way at all.

She hadn't thought of Robbie in a long time. She wondered if he was still if he'd turned into one of these things. Knowing Robbie, the way he'd never liked to fight, the way he always tried to reason his way out of a problem, she figured he'd probably died when the first wave of zombies rose up. He probably wouldn't have wanted to believe it was happening until one of the things actually got him.

She just hoped that he wasn't walking around out there somewhere. That would be too much to bear.

The third zombie-an old man with wire-rimmed glasses hanging from what remained of his ears-shuffled towards her with his hands outstretched. It wasn't until after Jolene had swung the bat and put him down that she realized she was weeping.

She allowed herself a moment, swiping at her eyes with the collar of her blouse, wiping the snot from her nose with the back of her hand, forcing herself to take deep breaths and delay the tears for later. And for just an instant, she was struck by how truly ridiculous everything suddenly seemed. There she was, standing in the middle of Sav-Mart with a bloody baseball bat in her hand and dead people walking around, crying her eyes out.

If she had laughed just then, she would have lost her mind.

A burst of gunfire startled her. Closer now. Bill and the guys were making their way back to the front of the store. She figured he planned on leaving her there, dead or alive. She didn't have much longer.

She slipped deeper into the store, following the sound of their footsteps as they crashed through displays. She was in front of them; they'd have to get past her now to get to the doors.

No use in making it easy for them.

Jolene looked around, hackles rising as Bill's footsteps got closer and closer. It would've been nice to have been in the gun aisle, or even close to the propane camping ovens, but shitty luck had held out and she was smack in the middle of the baking aisle. Nothing but flour and cake mixes and oil.

Jolene suddenly smiled. Now here was an idea.

She grabbed an armful of the plastic bottles of cooking oil and began twisting the caps off, watching for Bill to appear at any moment. She squirted oil down the aisle, upturning the bottles right down the middle as she sidestepped to the other end, leaving herself a narrow path along the shelves. Her heart was beating so hard, so fast, that she thought she might black out.

But it was time to finish this goddam mess. Finish it and go that would be.

She took a deep breath, closed her eyes for a moment, and began screaming.

The zombies reacted instantly, their moans intensifying as they honed in on her location. Jolene's muscles tensed as she watched them creep closer in the dimness, their arms reaching, fingers twitching to touch her. She screamed again, barely able now to squelch her growing panic.

Slowly, forcing herself to remain calm, Jolene began to inch her way back up the aisle, careful to keep her footing steady as she followed her narrow path. She moved sideways, swinging her gaze from one end of the aisle to the other. Damn it, Bill! Where the hell are you?

"Bill!" she screamed, trying to put the proper amount of cowed fear in her voice. "Help me! Please! I'll do anything you don't let them get me!"

It wasn't Bill who showed up. It was goat-bearded Roy.

Good enough.

"Get over here, you stupid bitch!" Roy motioned with his gun, hands trembling as he stared wide-eyed at the group of zombies amassing at the other end of the aisle. A few of them had ventured closer, sliding ungracefully on the oil and collapsing into messy heaps. There were maybe twenty of them now.

"I can't, Roy!" Jolene sobbed, flattening herself against the shelves as she covered her face and pretended to cry. "I'm too scared!"

"Jesus Christ." he muttered. "Bill is gonna beat your ass, you know."

Jolene kept faking her tears. She knew that Roy was much weaker-willed than Bill, that he wouldn't be able to just leave her there. She also knew that he was afraid of coming after her because the zombies on the other end of the aisle were just too damn close.

She peeked through her fingers and saw him looking nervously over his shoulder for Bill, unsure of what to do. If he didn't do something quick, it wouldn't matter anyway. The zombies were slowly picking their way down the aisle, sliding on the oil, but holding onto the shelves for balance. Bastards learned quick.

"Roy!" she screamed. "Please!"

"Aw, godamn it!" Roy shook his head, stamped his foot, and made his decision.

About five strides into his run, he hit the oil.

And kept right on going.

As he whizzed past her, Jolene could see an almost comical look of confusion on his face as he slipped and slid down the aisle. The confusion cleared up real quick when he saw the wall of dead folk waiting for him at the end of the aisle. That's when he started screaming.

He plowed into them like a bowling ball. And they were on him in a heartbeat. Jolene stuck around long enough to see one of the zombies wrench away a chunk of Roy's throat in its teeth, and then she tiptoed down to the other end of the aisle, careful not to slip or make a sound. Roy's garbled screams faded into bubbly gurgles, and then to thick silence. After that, there was nothing but the wet sounds of feeding.

Jolene barely noticed. By her count, she still had four more assholes to take care one particular asshole topping the list.

But she had a little time.

She slowly made her way to the hardware department, avoiding the lone zombie here and there. Most of them were attracted to the sounds of feeding coming from the baking aisle, drawn by the scent of Roy's blood. She couldn't hear where Bill and the others were-and she didn't know if that was a good thing or a bad thing.

Then she was in the relatively unlooted hardware department, surrounded by lamps and light bulbs and hammers and nails and all sorts of lovely little bits of metal. Years of watching Jimmy Ray's favorite action movies had taught her a few tricks, but until now, she'd never thought she'd have any use for them.

She just hoped she had enough time.

Moving quickly, she shrugged out of her jacket and pulled off one of her sweaters, tying the arms together to make a makeshift bag. She grabbed handfuls of nuts and bolts and nails from the open bins, dropping them into the sweater even as she looked ahead for the next thing on her mental shopping list. She didn't know exactly what she was making until she saw the canisters of kerosene.

Jolene smiled despite herself. That could work.

She grabbed three canisters of kerosene and a roll of black electrical tape, keeping one eye on the end of the aisle and both ears open for the sound of scuffling footsteps. Using her teeth to rip off a couple of lengths of tape, she shoved the canisters into her sweater, wrapping the tape around it until she was sure that nothing would spill out.

Oh, could work.

She shrugged back into her coat, slipping the shotgun back across her shoulders, and gathered up the sweater-bomb and the baseball bat. She scanned the aisle, looking for something, anything, else that might get her out of here in one piece. Somewhere to her right, she could hear Bill yelling for Ned. He sounded close, but not too close. She still had a little only a little.

Her gaze caught on a length of chain used for chandeliers, curled up in its bin like a silver-skinned snake. The sight triggered a memory of one of Jimmy Ray's zombie round-ups; he and some of the other men had used a chain like a whip on a female zombie, laughing every time it wrapped around her arms or legs, cackling like hyenas when the end of the chain-wrapped around a baseball, with nails and knife blades and other sharp things sticking out of it-hit her squarely in the throat and nearly took her head off. It was a nasty weapon, and it had done its job all too well.

Jolene grabbed the chain, doubling the end of it into a loop. She ran to the other side of the aisle, to the selection of padlocks, and grabbed an armful. She quickly opened them, glancing around every few seconds, sensing that her time was running out. Fumbling with the tiny keys, she unlocked each padlock until she had twenty of them open. She used one to fasten the loop of chain, then-after a quick search of the shelves-opened five larger padlocks. Those she attached all along the loop, every ten links or so. And to those larger locks, she added the smaller locks.

Jolene stood and gave the chain a swing. Not too heavy, but she wouldn't want to be on the other end of it.

With a smile that was little more than a baring of her teeth, Jolene grabbed a few more lengths of chain and a couple of extra padlocks.

Time to get this over with.

She heard Ned before she saw him.

Not known for his gentlemanly manners, Ned was notorious around the camp for blasting the most ferociously eye-watering farts known to mankind. His stomach couldn't handle anything but the blandest foods-which was fortunate for him, given their diet of canned food and boiled water-but whenever he was stressed, his bowels would make their unhappiness known in loud and fragrant ways.

And he was tooting the old butt-trumpet in grand style now.

Jolene edged around an aisle, peeking around a display of spider-webbed pocketbooks, and saw Ned at the jewelry counter, filling a white plastic Sav-Mart bag with gaudy fake diamond rings and sparkly necklaces. What he would need a bag of cheap costume jewelry for was beyond Jolene's guess; she figured he thought that if he had a few trinkets to spread around to the younger women, he might have a better chance of getting some non-Gerdie nookie. At five-four and about three hundred pounds, he needed all the help he could get.

Ned looked around anxiously, and Jolene had the feeling that he was more nervous about being caught by Bill than by the zombies. There were a few of them wandering in the nearby toy aisles. One zombie, a young boy, was particularly fascinated by a rack of stuffed animals. Even with his throat torn out and one arm wrenched out of his socket, it was easy to see that once upon a time the boy had been a cute kid.

Jolene looked away. No time to think about stuff like that. Not now, not ever.

Ned kept his head down, greedy as he scooped armfuls of jewelry into the bag, blissfully unaware of Jolene's presence as she silently stepped up behind him. She held the chain tightly, hands cramping as she squeezed the links. All she had to do was swing the chain. That's all. Ned was just as bad as the others. She'd been on the receiving end of his anger more than once, and God only knew what he did to Gerdie when they were alone.

Ned stiffened slightly and Jolene froze, sure that she'd been caught. Instead, Ned grunted with the force of another eye-watering fart, chuckled to himself, and went back to work.

Jolene hesitated only a moment.

"Ned," she said softly.

He half-turned, still bent over the glass case, and she swung the chain. All twenty-five padlocks found their target and Ned's nose exploded in a spray of blood as chips of yellow-black teeth flew through the air. He didn't scream; he just kept making a thick whuffing sound as he tried desperately to understand what had just happened to his face. His eyes, starkly white against the mask of blood, met Jolene's and silently begged for mercy.

Jolene swung the chain again, this time bringing it down across the back of his head, slamming him face-first into the glass jewelry case. He stopped moving.

She stepped closer to him, grimacing as she checked for a pulse, hoping that he was dead. Instead, there was a faint, thready heartbeat. Blood kept pulsing from his nose and mouth. Bastard didn't have the good sense to Jolene was fast learning that she didn't have the stomach for killing living men.

Jolene took a deep breath and released it, nervously watching the area for approaching zombies. They'd be attracted by the rich stink of blood; it wouldn't take very long for a crowd to gather.

But she had to take care of Ned. She couldn't let him walk out of this place alive.

She quickly weighed her choices. She could keep slamming the locks into his head and crush his skull, but that would destroy his brain and keep him from coming she dearly wanted these assholes to exist in a world of pain for as long as inhumanly possible. She could slit his throat, but she didn't think her queasy stomach could handle the sensation of actually sinking the knife blade into his flesh. Shooting him was out of the question, because it would alert the others to her position.

She could hear the zombies shuffling closer, moaning hungrily. Not much time. She should just leave him there.

Jolene almost smiled. Good enough.

She quickly tugged Ned free of the display case, grimacing at the state of his face. Splinters of glass peppered his forehead and cheeks, even his eyelids. He was a big man, so getting him over to the support beam just beside the jewelry section was a backbreaking chore. But she managed, and she didn't bother to stand him up on his feet as she leaned him back against the beam. As he slumped there, breathing slowly but deeply, she wound the length of chain around his beer belly, under his arms, locking it around the back of the beam. Nothing fancy, but it would hold. Even when he came back from the dead and decided he was hungry.

Ned grunted, head snapping up as he opened his eyes and blearily focused on Jolene. ".the fuck.?" he muttered.

The first of the zombies stepped out of the aisles, a young, naked woman with wild, frizzy hair and a grayish-blue tinge to her skin. Her breasts were gone, and her gashed stomach flapped open to reveal an empty hollow. She turned in the direction of Ned and Jolene and stumbled forward, teeth clicking together loudly as her mouth opened and closed hungrily.

More followed her. All of them were aware of Ned now, aware of the thick scent of his blood. Ned, unable to look away from the group of zombies gathering, grabbed at Jolene's arm. "'t do this." His voice choked with tears, rising with panic. "Oh don't."

Jolene jerked her arm away from him, backing away slowly, glancing over her shoulder to make sure there were no nasty surprises creeping up behind her. The naked zombie got to Ned first, straddling his lap to go for the soft meat of his throat, ending his girlish scream in a wet gurgle.

Jolene finally turned around. That was all she needed to see.

The other two were surprisingly easy to find. Jolene followed the sound of their voices into the toy area, moving very slowly, because she had a bad idea of what she would find when she found Buddy and Carl. She knew all too well what kind of activity would inspire their whispers and giggles. It was the kind of thing that was frowned upon at the camp, but only on the surface. Jolene knew for a fact that some of the guys made a practice of taking the prettier zombies, the ones who weren't too bloated with rot, and 'adjusting' them-knocking out their teeth, cutting off their fingers-until they were suitable sex toys. When the dead women began to fall apart, they were just thrown out of the circle of camp and left to the sun and wind.

So she knew what she would see when she finally found Buddy and Carl. They must have found themselves a pretty one.

Jolene slowed, hesitating at the end of an aisle, leaning against a display of yellow and orange water guns. She held the sweater bomb loosely in the crook of her arm as she carefully unsheathed her shotgun.

"Damn it, ain't gonna let us bring one back with us!"

"He will if we do her teeth and hands here. Gimme the hammer. Hold her down."

A sickening crack, followed by the hollow sound of the zombie's moan. Jolene closed her eyes for a moment and willed her gorge to settle down. Do it quick, do it fast, and then get the hell out of this place. She didn't know how much more she could stand.

She stepped into the aisle, unnoticed by either man. As Buddy kneeled on the zombie girl's upstretched arms, Carl straddled her stomach, slamming the hammer into her teeth as he laughed at her struggles.

Jesus Christ, Jolene thought, stunned into inaction. Maybe we deserved this. If this is the best we can do.

Buddy noticed her first, sweat dripping off his pimply cheeks as he snapped his head up and met her eyes. Jolene could see the sudden, shocked guilt in them.

"Oh, !"

Carl, hunched over the girl, half-turned toward Jolene. His smile widened as he straightened up.

"Well, looky who joined the party." Carl glanced over at Buddy. "Bill would definitely let us take her back with us."

Jolene thought of that hammer coming down on her mouth, thought of their dirty hands on her body, and tossed the sweater bomb into the middle of the aisle. It skidded and slid, coming to a rest right beside Carl's knee. Both men looked at it, then back to Jolene.

She already had the shotgun in her hands.

And one shot did the job.

Jolene ducked back behind the display of water guns as the kerosene blew, catching a few bits of shrapnel in her back but ignoring the pain as she gloried in the screams of Carl and Buddy. That bomb was crotch level with both of them.

She peeked around the edge of the display. The toy aisle now looked as if a red paint bomb had exploded; blood dripped from the shelves, pooled on the floor, covered the three lumps of flesh lying in the middle of the aisle. Jolene eased into the aisle, needing to see, to know.

Both of them were still alive, but barely. Buddy's face had taken the brunt of the explosion; it looked like a pile of bloody ground beef with a neck. His breath rattled from the hole that had been his mouth. Jolene was pleased to note that his teeth had been broken and chipped by the flying metal.

Carl, still half-atop the zombie girl, had been wounded even more horribly than Buddy. Everything above his left knee was included. He clutched at the emptiness between his legs, hands sinking wrist deep into the bloody mess.

Jolene knew she had to hurry now, that the blast would bring Bill running, but she wanted to stay just a moment longer, to savor the moment even as it disgusted her. She had never thought she could be capable of doing this, never thought she would ever have to find out what her limits truly were.

But now she knew. For better or for worst, she knew.

God help her.

She ran back full throttle for the front doors, keeping her head low and shoulders hunched, just in case Bill was tracking her with his riflescope. She wanted to finish things near the front door, so she could make a quick get-away and-

Something slammed into her stomach, taking her breath away as she collapsed. Jolene rolled away, scrambling for footing, half-expecting to feel teeth sinking into her flesh at any moment.

Instead, she saw Bill standing over her, a smirk on his face and his rifle in his hands. He'd used it as a club. Apparently he'd learned the same lesson that she'd learned: don't waste ammo.

And from the look on his face, Jolene had the feeling that he wanted to keep her alive a little longer.

"Bitch." Bill kicked at her, catching her in mid-thigh. Jolene clenched her jaw and jerked away, tightening her grip on the baseball bat. Bill noticed. "'t even think about it."

He lifted one foot and slowly lowered it onto her hand, grinding. Jolene released the bat.

" your ass on up."

Jolene slowly rose, cradling her hand to her chest. So far most of the zombies were occupied with the Ned buffet over in the jewelry department, but she knew that distraction wouldn't last for long. Not when there was fresh meat to be had.

Bill grinned at her, and Jolene could see that whatever he'd called humanity was now totally gone.

"I hate an uppity bitch," he said with a smile, grabbing a handful of her hair before she could even react. He yanked her close to him, her face right up to his. The stink of his breath-a combination of rotting teeth and stale beer-made her gag. "You messed up big time, girlie."

Jolene gritted her teeth and forced herself to keep her eyes on Bill's. The zombies were beginning to take notice of them now, pulling away from the cooling bodies of the others in search of a warmer meal. She could hear them moving around in the darkness, scuttling like roaches.

"I'm gonna do you slow," Bill whispered, pulling Jolene so close that his lips brushed her cheek. She flinched away but he held her tightly. "I'm gonna leave you out here for these fuckers, and then I'm gonna watch them tear your ass apart."

Jolene's hand slid to her stomach, beneath her blouse. The handle of the hunting knife felt warm beneath her palm.

"And then you're gonna come back," Bill said, his voice rising slightly, growing almost hysteric. "And I'm gonna let you."

It would be so easy to slide the knife into Bill's fat gut. One quick movement, one quick jerk upward, and his guts would be on the floor and he'd be dead. Easy. But it'd be too easy. There were other ways.

Jolene slowly smiled.

And then she slashed.

The first swing of the hunting knife caught Bill's left thigh, high near the groin, slicing deeply into the artery. His eyes bugged almost comically with shock as the first gout of blood splashed out, steaming hot and stinking of copper. He released Jolene's hair and looked down at himself, taking a staggering step backwards, sending a fresh spray across the floor.

Jolene followed him and slashed again, the knife tearing across his belly, putting enough force behind the blow to cut deeply into his gut. Bill stared at his stomach, straightening up slightly as the first ropy curls of intestine began to slip out of his body. The stench of blood and bile seemed to thicken the air.

It drew the zombies like moths to a flame.

Bill collapsed to his knees, one hand feebly trying to hold his belly together, the other reaching out to Jolene, as if he actually expected her to do something. His eyes shone with horrible understanding. He knew what was happening. What was going to happen.

"Please." he whispered. Fat tears rolled down his cheeks. His lower lip actually trembled. "Please, 't leave me."

The zombies were closer now, coming in from all sides. In less than a minute, there'd be too many to get through, even with the shotgun.

Bill wailed like a newborn.

Jolene moved swiftly behind Bill, grabbing him beneath his arms. She pulled at him, dragging him towards the front doors, trying not to notice that the gash in his belly widened and spurted out more gore with every step. A few of the zombies fell to the floor, lapping at the puddle of blood and bile Bill had left behind. The rest of them followed, shuffling along with renewed speed.

"I knew you wouldn't leave me." Bill's voice rose, words slurring and running together as he rolled his head back to look up at Jolene. "I knew you wasn't gonna do 't have it in ' stupid bitch."

Jolene said nothing, keeping her eyes on the advancing crowd, trying to keep an eye on the area behind her. The van's doors were open, just a few feet away. If she let go of Bill, she could make then that would ruin everything.

She found a reserve of strength and manhandled him the last few feet to the van, dropping him heavily to the floor. She rooted through one of the backpacks, digging out the coil of rope, then threw the packs into the back of the van. Bill looked expectantly up at her, raising his arms like a child waiting to be lifted.

Jolene slammed the van doors.

Then she reached down to Bill's jeans, snagging the van keys off the cheap plastic keychain that hung from his beltstrap.

"You're riding on the outside, Billy-boy," she said and grinned, wrapping the rope beneath Bill's arms, looping it around his chest, hitching it with a tight knot. Too weak to argue, too stupid to understand, he just stared at her with glassy eyes.

Until she tied the other end of the rope to the rear fender. Then he got wise real quick.

"Don't." he murmured. "Please."

Jolene ignored him. She'd watched him and the other yahoos pull this trick a dozen times, sometimes using live people as their toys instead of the zombies. Jimmy Ray and the others had always gotten a big kick out of seeing what being dragged over asphalt and gravel could do to a human body.

"Don't worry about it, Bill," she said as she tightened the knots and glanced back into the store. The zombies were closer, their whines and moans drawing the attention of the dead folk in the parking lot. "By the time they get to you, you'll probably already be dead." Jolene crouched down beside him, taking a precious extra moment to look into his eyes. "And when you come back-and Bill, you will come back-I'm gonna let you."

There was no remorse, no grief in Bill's eyes. Just that same, dumb hatred. That was all Jolene needed to see.

She jogged around to the driver's side of the van and clambered in, stowing her shotgun securely beside her as she started the engine. She revved it a few times, nice and loud, a dinner bell for all those hungry dead folk out there. In the seldom-used tape deck, she found an old Lynyrd Skynyrd cassette. She cranked it up as loud as she could stand, smiling as the twangy opening notes of "Freebird" filled the silence.

"Come and get it, fellas," she said, grinning as she slowly pulled away from the doors of Sav-Mart. Bill's screams cut through the music; she couldn't tell if they were caused by the zombies or by the movement of the van. Either way, she didn't give a particular shit.

Jolene glanced into the rearview mirror and smiled, seeing nothing but dead folk stumbling along behind her as she rolled slowly along. Looked like she had just enough gasoline left for one last visit to the trailer park.

She hoped Jimmy Ray didn't mind a few unexpected guests.

Nightstalker didn't need sleep, only an hour a day of a deep-trance type state. He sometimes saw visions, with more substance than dreams but with less than reality. Though they were all in his eidetic memory, he didn't bother with them. They were only dreams.

He took this hour at high noon, when the light filtering through the clouds was at its brightest. He didn't like light very much, it didn't hurt him, a lot of it was just very irritating. When he negotiated with Janes's sneaky eyes, he chose the place and time. It was best not to be seen in light anyway. Shadows were a good cloak. He tended to terrify the weak, disgust the strong. Despite how much he enjoyed the effect he had on the weakling sapien wannabe spies, you can't negotiate clearly with a mind full of fear. He usually didn't bother to be reasonable about anything but hell, he couldn't do anything if they decided to drop a bomb on him suddenly while he was doing his equivalent of sleeping. They always had to agree because they wanted to stay on good terms with him. Oh no, can't have your precious Nightstalker turning against you, can you? They were amusing, really.

He stayed mainly in the mountains around Rainbow Falls, but sometimes forayed out farther, as he had on the occasion during which he had sensed the World-Walkers. Though he only hunted once a week or so, eating was scarce because it was all tainted. And tainted blood was not good blood for consumtion. Though he could eat anything, only live, fresh meat, still held the most energy. If he ate just anything he'd be feeding more frequently, and that was inconvenient. And tainted meat was no good for complicated reasons. He knew the mindless undead sensed this...but they were undead, he wasn't, and so of course their souls had moved on into what he called "the void."

Death didn't frighten him. He could care less if he died. Death was inevitable and nothing to worry about, he'd leave a legacy, but who was there to care. He was like a berserker, sort of, it was good to die honorably, but he supposed it didn't have to be. Death, life, what was the difference in a world like this? He was damn hard to kill though, so if he'd cared at all he wouldn't have to worry too much.

He didn't feel anything. At one time, he'd had emotions, he'd been human. He knew what emotions were technically, but they meant nothing; emotion was a weakness. He simply didn't care. He supposed the "life" he lived was okay...after all, he got to blow things up, and that was pretty satisfying. So if the targets were human? They might live again anyway, if their brains were intact. No need to get picky about what you blow up...blowing things up is fun anyway. Blowing up sapiens got boring, they were too easy.

He remembered well the towns he'd seen on his forays. They were full of crazies, dejected people with the life beaten out of them, and people sick and dying with disease. They'd shied from him and he passed clear of them. He had no use for them or for blowing the poor wretches up, though they'd probably welcome it. He'd considered doing it..."out of pity," the sapiens would say. Whatever that truly meant, but the meaning he knew was appropriate then. He didn't hunt among the diseased; his taint could resist it but something about their madness, their sickness, had a terrible feel and a tough, sour taste. He'd slipped in in the night, following health by its pure smell. He wasted nothing. He disposed of the bloody clothing in the forests. He usually operated by night anyway, night was, after all, his element, night and fire. The mindless undead shied from him as well, maybe they could sense that he was like them but so terrifyingly distant from them and maybe it frightened them, if such as they were still capable of fear.

As he drifted out of trance-state, his senses came alert. He had felt something move in his mind.

He let a telesender fly along its trail and waited. His own sender brought back the other's dying sender.

This was interesting. The sender didn't belong to a sapien, yet it wasn't something like him.

He incorporated the sender into his own energy and sent the powerful bolt out to the original source of the telesender.

He found her.

He'd found Immortalis!

Oh, he could use this against Janes! He was the equivalent of elated. He had something to bait them with. Oh, this was simply brilliant ... He couldn't wait until they wanted something from him ...

He rose from his sitting position in the caves up behind the dead city. It was a blatant show of his power that he would camp out right above the place that had partially caused the end of the world. It meant a lot of things that he did this. Janes understood the meanings of it. He'd tried to hit them in a bad spot when he had made the caves above and behind the facility his hideout, and he had hit then in an even more devastating way when he had neglected to inform Janes of the presence of the three World-Walkers. Although he knew little about them, he did possess the knowledge that they were gunslingers, one of whom was a descendant of the line of Arthur Eld, and that that one and one other were X infected, and were controlling the effects of the infection by pure will power.

He made his way through the winding tunnels and out to the cold, windswept mountainside, where the cold stumps of dead and twisted trees thrust themselves up like aged statues to the dark sky. He could hear them talking to each other in their old, murmuring grey language. It was terribly alien to his mind, as were the clear voices of humans, the unnaturally slick, smooth feel of them, the tempting sweet smell of them ...

He felt like flying. He could draw on the alien energy of the taint, and there was a lot of that, for he'd only hunted hours ago. Or he could draw on the undead's feeble power; they were a convenient and expendable resource.

He reached out and oh so gently caught a few of their minds. He squeezed experimentally, feeling them squirm. He relished it.

And then he leapt into the air.

He was amazing in flight, striking terror in the hearts of any below.

He was feeling his version of playful. Maybe he could put on an illusion, go into a crazy camp, and scare the weaklings. Naw. He could watch them for a while ... delayed gratification, you know.

He usually wasn't so trivial. He'd been trying to shake off the disturbing thoughts of the night, but his mind kept returning to Marie and to the three gunslingers, with whom were a young woman and an infected child, one who had also shown a phenomenal amount of control over the X Virus, enough control that even the mutative effects, which should have rendered her undead or a monster had been harnessed to give her wings and the power of free flight. Why were they even present? The last gunslingers had died long ago and nobody should have possessed that amount of control over a virus that even he hadn't been able, entirely, to control.

Telekinesis was a thing of beauty, he reflected. His version of beauty wasn't anyone else's, his was wild discord and the light of an explosion.

Maybe he'd blow something up.

He called to the element of fire within his mind. He was one of the most powerful dark psychics this feeble world had ever seen.

Fire danced on his palms. It was warm but did not burn him.

He fashioned a bolt of it.

"Let's go scare off a few of those so-called elites."

He switched his mental focus on to a broader band. He saw the pitiful minds of raving, delusional crazies, the fevered minds of the dying, the starving, the crying, the misery, the depression. He fed on it and wove its psychic element into his lightning bolt.

He swooped down over a convoy of them. He saw their shocked faces, and flicked the bolt at the lead windshield. He was infamous for his deadly accuracy. Not only would Janes's sniveling sapien wannabes not bitch at him, but he could have fun as well. If only he could squish them, like flies, but even he wasn't that idiotic.

He'd gotten away from them. Three months ago he'd come to realize that he was captive, mind-controlled by the Corporation, and by the force of his will had broken through their power, their hold over him, not that he had allowed them to know at first. When that knowledge had come, it had come too late for even Janes to take any action that would have ended with him back under control. Then had come his final escape from them, his wanderings through this dead world, but still partially under their command.

He landed heavily, more bolts prepared in his hands.

But something stopped him.

He closed his hands on the fire, extinguishing it.

He turned and walked away, leaving the disarray behind him.

A strange thought occurred to him. He was acting just like Janes.

Didn't he hate Janes?

And cold reigned, once more.

Nothing mattered...once more.

As Sean, Lila, and Marie had been trapped in Rainbow Falls, now they were trapped in the world itself. There was nowhere to go, but only Nightstalker could risk setting up residence somewhere, though the undead were drawn to him, there was a line near him they wouldn't cross. So they continued on, traveling, drifting. The undead could sense their blood as Marie could...and as she knew Nightstalker could. They had no idea where he was, but she'd sensed him before and he was terrifyingly unique. If they got close enough for her to sense him, she was sure he'd sense them, so they stayed far clear of Rainbow Falls, and not just because of the radiation. She had a feeling that those mountains were his domain and anything that went there died.

They had traveled on into Canada. Marie was cautious here because she knew she was near Corporation headquarters, and all her senses were on high alert.

So when she came upon Ashlee, Niamh, and the three strangers, she was prepared for war. Like Nightstalker, Marie had also sensed their presence and also the infection present in at least three of them. She knew that they could be dangerous enemies to janes Kulanek and the corporation, but the presence of the X Virus made them a danger.

As the pickup truck approached and slowed, she made ready, either for battle, or for an encounter that would end with the deaths of at least one or two of them.

Mark was driving the truck slowly through what must once have been a beautiful stretch of Canadian countryside, when he spotted a vehicle pulled off the rode and what appeared to be three people standing near it. He could tell at a glance that they weren't zombies. They stood too straight and still and there was no sign of decay. He stopped the truck, already on his guard.

"We'd better be ready," he said quietly, "when the world fell apart in all those movies I watched, people turned on each other, sometimes for no good reason."

"Then do you think it wise to meet them?" Stephen asked."If we don't and they're not the wrong sort of people," Mark replied, "we could be getting them killed by not stopping. Besides, there are only three. I think we'd be more than a match for them if they started anything."

Very well," Stephen said.

Ashlee opened her door and was immediately confronted by a woman who appeared normal in every way except one. Her eyes were darkening, just as she had seen Iyana's eyes do when she had been preparing to fight Allan, or Gulyan, or whoever he had really been.

Alison made to exit the truck next, carrying Niamh. Her back and shoulders suddenly screamed with pain, but she ignored it. This wasn't the time to give in to it. Later she could rest, but now was the time to remain strong, to stand, to be true, to remember the face of her Father, not the one who had heaped abuse on her from the time she had been a child, but her gunslinger Father, the Din of their ka-tet. She noticed immediately that the woman, "Marie, her name is Marie," had noticed Niamh, and that Niamh's golden eyes were darkening.

"You need to take care of her," said the woman whose name Alison already knew was Marie.

"She's my cousin's daughter," said Ashlee.

Mark and Stephen exited the truck at this point, followed by Alison, and faced the woman.

"I'm surprised you're alive," Marie said, looking with her ever darkening eyes at the three gunslingers.

"We're gunslingers," Mark said, his mouth getting the better of his judgment, "of course we'd be alive. I'm Mark, this is Stephen, that's Alison, that's Ashlee, and that's Niamh. We've just come down from Alaska. Ashlee's been near Rainbow Falls."

"And how did you escape Nightstalker, not to mention radiation?" Marie inquired curiously.

"Who?" Alison asked in her own turn.

"You'd know him if you saw him, so I suppose you haven't," said Marie, "lucky you."

"Do you mean the big nasty mutated one in black?" Mark asked, remembering the thing they had seen just before Niamh had gone spare.

"Pretty much," Marie answered, "if you got close enough to see him I'm surprised you're still alive."

"He was pretty preoccupied," Alison contributed.

"Blowing shit up, I suppose," said Marie.

"I wouldn't know," Mark said, not wanting to go into time consuming details concerning the sudden appearance of the thing Marie called Nightstalker, Niamh's attack on Alison and their hurried escape from the town, I hauled ass in the other direction."

"Wise choice," said Marie.

At that moment, Stephen noticed the other two, a man and a woman, were now standing behind the one who had been speaking to them.

"I'm surprised you all survived," he said.

"We're stronger than you think," Marie returned.

"Especially with what they've done," said Ashlee.

Marie said nothing to this, but the change in her smile told all three gunslingers that Ashlee had, as Mark would have said, hit the nail right on the head. Stephen wondered for a moment what Ashlee had meant by that, but then remembered what she had told them in the carriage of how the Corporation had taken her Cousin Iyana and had changed her.

"We can't stay anywhere for long..." Marie began, but broke off when Niamh turned her head toward her.

Mark saw that the child's eyes were now pure black, like those of the one called Allan, all gold gone from them.

"Oh shit fire and save matches," he thought, "oh dear Jesus bring on the clowns.

"Let her go!" Marie said, her voice holding all the command of a gunslinger of old, and Ashlee dropped Niamh. The child's eyes were now swirling with red and pulsing rapidly.

"Look out!" Marie shouted.

After that, everything happened quickly. A shadow moved behind Ashlee and at the next moment she was lying on the ground. Mark, Alison, and Stephen spun round to face their attackers, guns out and ready for battle.

"I do not aim with my hand," Mark thought, remembering the old gunslinger ritual Stephen had taught them, "He who aims with his hand has forgotten the face of his Father. I aim with my eye. I do not shoot with my hand. He who shoots with his hand has forgotten the face of his Father. I shoot with my mind. I do not kill with my gun. He who kills with his gun has forgotten the face of his Father. I kill with my heart!"

But the odds were too great, even for three gunslingers of Mid-World. They were surrounded. The inner circle was composed of armed men, some with rifles, some with machine guns and at least one...

"Is that a goddamn rocket launcher that guy has?" Mark thought, "Jesus jumped up fucking H Christ in a piss pumper! What the fuck's going on around this crazyhouse?"

Those in the outer circle weren't armed, unless you counted the infection animating their rotting bodies to be a weapon. There were thousands of them, some relatively fresh, others mere skeletons with rotting skin, empty eye sockets and leaning jagged teeth.

"Why aren't they attacking?" Mark wondered, "This many people should be making those things go crazy."

Marie suddenly closed her eyes, uttering a sound such as had never come from a human being before. At the same time, a powerful wave of energy washed passed the gunslingers and their captors, who had, by this time, managed to bind their arms at their sides, after relieving them of their guns.

The energy wave rushed on, causing the nearest rank of Corporation agents to lose their balance and go toppling into the small army of undead surrounding them. The gunslingers weapons went flying, but the flight seemed to be controlled. They landed well within the circle, out of reach of all.

Marie then flew into the fray, kicked a zombie in the head, felling others in quick succession with precisely aimed kicks, punches and stabs, narrowly avoiding flying bullets fired at her by several Corporation operatives who had been unaffected by the energy blast Stephen was sure she had some how hurled at them.

Unfortunately, the gunslingers couldn't enter the battle. Each of them had been roughly restrained by four guards, Ashlee was currently being held by two Corporation agents, as were the man and the woman who had been with Marie, and a man was holding Niamh at gunpoint.

"Can this fucked up day get any worse?" Mark thought, and suddenly, as if the thought had caused it to happen, it did!

From behind three of the guards on the far side of the circle stepped a huge form Mark had seen before. It was the thing Marie had called Nightstalker.

"Oh my god," Mark thought, "that's all we need!"

Mark attempted to break free of the guards holding him, but it was useless. There were two on each of his arms and from the feel of their grip; he assumed that there was a great deal of strength in them that they hadn't exhibited yet.

"More than likely," he thought, "if they wanted to, they could break us all in two without even breaking a sweat and then go have a good dinner afterwards. Jesus Christ All Mighty, these people really are crazy."

"Fight him," a voice from behind Mark suddenly said, and he and the others were turned by their guards so they could witness the spectacle about to unfold. Mark saw a tall, dark haired, dark eyed woman standing immediately behind Marie.

"Who the hell is that?" he thought, "whoever she is, she looks like she could even give these Corporation goons a run for their money, but who or what is she."

Alison reached out with her mind, using the touch. She sensed nothing behind the dark woman's eyes for a moment, but then she saw a great darkness, heard the horrible, beautiful, deadly sound of Todash chimes, and cried out in pain, a cry that was lost in the sounds emanating from the surrounding undead, as agony erupted in her back and shoulders. She could feel blood, first dripping and then running in streams from the points at which the pain was strongest.

At the same moment, the dark woman, "Janes," Alison thought through her pain, "it's pronounced Janice, but she spells it Janes," said, "Fight him now or I'll kill the precious child."

"You are a cowardly wretch who should be drawn and quartered," Stephen said conversationally, "you have forgotten the face of your Father. You are a scurrying little maggot who makes others do your killing for you. You do not even hold the gun that threatens Niamh. Release me and I will settle with you."

"I think not, gunslinger," Janes countered, "but watch. Here is some sport."

"And what exact nut house did you escape from, lady?" Mark asked, whilst at the same time, Marie gritted, "You cruel, heartless, homicidal bitch!"

"We've got to do something!" Mark nearly shouted.

"We cannot," Stephen answered, "it is her turn to try the line."

"I don't think that that thing or that child killing cunt are her gunslinging instructor," Mark countered.

"Some tests are faced without instructors," Stephen said, his voice still calm, although he was doing his best to break free of his own four guards, "we can only watch. It is ka."

"Did anyone ever tell you that if you say ka twice," Mark said, "you come up with the baby word for shit?"

"No," Stephen said simply.

"Well, say it twice," Mark said, "because in this situation ka and kaka are pretty much the same fucking thing."

Resolutely, Marie turned. She and Nightstalker circled each other. Trying to catch her unawares, Nightstalker swung at her from behind. She ducked, came up behind him, and kicked him behind the knee. He spun, grabbing hold of her, she let herself go limp and then twisted free. Dropping to the ground she spun to avoid his punches, ducked under one and hit him solidly in the nose with a thud. No bones broke; it was like punching stone. He tried to catch her but she was much smaller. Ducking, she came up behind him and hit him in the back of the head, followed by another punch to the face. He was like stone, indestructible, moving relentlessly on, blindingly and terrifyingly strong. He caught her by her fist, lifted her, threw her down, and stepped on her leg, but she wriggled away and kicked viciously at his ankles. She drove him backward into a wall with a flurry of quick punches. He tried to spin and pin her but she wriggled free again. Seeing broken, rusted metal spikes behind him, she spun and drove him back that way. He tried to grab her and throw her into the spikes. She ducked away but he broke one and used the jagged shard of metal to push her back toward the wall. She parried with her mind, so that now the battle seemed somewhat one-sided. She caught a half-second's lapse and ripped the spike from his hands. He was instantly on her but again, her slight size saved her, she ducked out, whirled, and with a flurry of lightning-fast punches drove him back to the spikes. She ducked under a renewed attack and shoved him backward with such force that the longest of the metal shards pounded into his back. She hit him repeatedly, driving it deeper.

At that point in the battle, Mark, thanks to the touch, sensed a psychic attack erupt from Nightstalker, directed at Marie. It seemed to be composed of the pain she had just inflicted on him.

"And if those spikes aren't coated with something designed to kill someone infected with the X virus," he thought, "then I'm a billy-bumbler."

Marie screamed with agony, but not physical agony, but with an agony of the mind. In that scream was all the pain and suffering of a dying world, an unending sense of loss.

"Loss?" Mark wondered, "what the fuck is this crazy shit?"

"No!" Marie screamed again. She stood, shaking and white-faced, in front of Nightstalker.

"What the hell?" Alison said, attempting to keep her pain from her voice. She knew if Mark heard it, he would want to do something, but in this situation, trying to do something, anything, could only get him killed. She turned her attention back to the battle. Marie and Nightstalker still stood facing each other, but neither of them moved. It was as if the both of them had suddenly decided to take a trip down Memory Lane. Then one of Nightstalker's huge hands rose and for a moment gently touched Marie's face and then fell back to his side.

"What have they done, Alex? What have _I_ done?" Marie whispered.

"Who the hell is Alex?" Mark thought, "why do Alison and I always come in on the third act? Why doesn't ka ever provide anyone with every bit of information they might need? Yuon told us about Ashlee and Niamh, but she didn't say anything about Marie, her friends, or that thing."

As Marie stood looking at Nightstalker, Janes stepped up behind her. "Kill him." Her voice was quiet and full of finality.

Marie turned, drained, empty, shocked. "No." Her brilliant blue eyes stared out of her white, empty face, dim with grief and drained of light. "You're even worse than I thought." The words came through numb lips. "Go to hell, Janes Kulanek, go to fucking hell!" There was a sound behind her.

"Put him out of his misery, Marie; he's dying," said Janes.

There was a terrible sickening tearing sound. Marie turned. There were jagged fragments of metal sticking out of Nightstalker's back as he moved slowly toward Janes. The other woman tensed.

"I think that child killing cunt, as you called her is about to have more than a few problems," Stephen remarked.

"Let's fucking hope so," Mark replied.

Nightstalker ignored the gunslingers and their guards completely. He appeared to stop in front of Janes. He stilled completely. His eyes were shut. He was like a statue. The moment was frozen.

"I think you pissed someone very large off," Mark said, his voice carrying through the new silence, "I think it's going to suck to be you in a few seconds, you child killing cunt."

In one fluid, blinding movement, Nightstalker caught Janes, twirled her several times above his head like a rag doll as she screamed, and flung her, still screaming, into the army of zombies. He bent to pick up his guns and strap them back on. The spikes shifted in his back.

"How the fuck is he doing that?" Alison thought, "how the fuck ...?"

Before Alison's thought could complete itself, she noticed that the hands holding her were gone. The guards had suddenly discovered that something had gone very, very wrong in their plans. Stephen was suddenly beside her, holding his knife. He had apparently already freed Mark, Ashlee and Niamh.

"Keep still, Alison," he said, "or I may have an accident."

"Gunslingers don't have those kinds of accidents," she said with a smile, trusting him completely, as a daughter would a father. She kept still, though, but not for the reason Stephen thought she did. It was painful to move. It felt as if someone, an extremely sadistic child was her guess, had planted shards of broken glass in her back and shoulders, and had then stomped very hard on the whole lot with both feet clad in hard, extremely hard, shoes.

At the same time as Mark, Alison and Stephen dove for their guns, which had landed near them, Nightstalker spun, lithe and powerful, taking out six of the undead at once. Zombies surged forward. They were surrounded by a sea of them.

As Alison drew a bead on the first of the zombies to come within range, the pain exploded into a universe of hell-like torment. She screamed, and this time, the scream was heard. As she fell to the ground, she felt hands catch her and draw her out of the worst of the battle.

"Don't lose your guns," she told herself, "whatever you do, don't lose your hold on your fucking guns!"

As Marie prepared to face this new threat, she heard a sudden scream of pain. It was Alison, and she was lying on the ground, immobile with pain, face white and drawn, eyes burning. Marie ran forward and half-lifted the smaller woman against her slight body and pulled her to the side. Desperately she fought the zombies away from Alison, but she was preoccupied and didn't see the bullet coming.

"Oh, my Christ," Mark thought, as he fired into the ranks of zombies. He had seen Marie catch Alison, had seen the slightly bigger woman go down, a bullet fired by a Corporation goon in her side, but now all was coldness, the coldness that came with the gunslinger training. he wasn't really there to himself at all. His eyes saw, his mind noted the targets and his guns obeyed both. Zombies and Corporation soldiers alike fell before his and Stephen's fire, clearing a path through the hoards of undead and their creators. He dimly saw Niamh, safely out of the way of the flying bullets, near Alison. Nightstalker, his guns momentarily silent, bent and lifted the two women and the child from the ground.

After a relatively short time, the zombies appeared to get the message and backed off. Mark and Stephen turned, saw Ashlee, but did not see Nightstalker.

"How the fuck does someone that big hide?" Mark asked.

"He has taken to the sky," Stephen answered.

"Do you mean that thing can fly?" Mark asked in astonishment.

"Indeed he can," Stephen answered, "but I reckon he is more than just a muty. he saved Alison's, Niamh's and that other woman's lives, not to mention those other two."

"Well, where the fuck did he fly off to?" Mark asked, "and where are those two who were with her? I don't like the fact that we can't find them. Maybe those Corporation goons took them, to say nothing about our fucking truck and all the stuff we had in it."

"Use your eyes, gunslinger," Stephen said in the tone of voice that usually meant that a lesson was beginning.

Mark looked in all directions and after a moment, spied Nightstalker's huge form. he and Stephen, who had already spotted him, made off in his direction, Stephen carrying Ashlee. Mark did not, however, see any sign of the other two and he didn't like it, and as things turned out, he was right not to.

They found themselves in what appeared to be a partially demolished building. It was open to the sky, but the walls were high enough to prevent any but the freshest zombies from entering. Indeed, Stephen and Mark had difficulty in entering, especially with Ashlee not yet awake, at least until Nightstalker, as Mark would have undoubtedly said, "gave them a leg up." Stephen rummaged in his pack and produced a blanket, unfolded it, and laid Alison, Niamh and Marie on it.

"What's wrong with her?" Mark asked.

"I know not," Stephen said, unfolding another of his blankets, this one for Ashlee.

"She's been hurting since that night we saw Nightstalker in that town up north," Mark said.

"I'm so, so sorry," Niamh said quietly.

"Alex," Marie said weakly.

"I'm here," Nightstalker rumbled.

"I'm blind!" Marie cried.

"What's going on?" Mark asked, "we've been in some scrapes before, Stephen, but none of them wiped out my optic nerves."

"I reckon it's the infection, loss of blood and severe exhaustion," Stephen replied, "the three are causing her to temporarily lose her sight."

The next few minutes were spent readying the camp. Stephen gathered anything and everything usable as fuel for a fire that was near to hand, and as Mark got said fire going, he bent over Alison.

What he saw was not exactly unexpected, considering what had happened to her and who had done it. Wings appeared to be forming on her, Stephen could tell this by the altered shape of her bone structure. They hadn't yet begun to show through the ruins of what had once been her back, but it would happen soon and this seemed to be what was currently occupying Nightstalker's attention as well. Then the massive creature stirred.

"Not going to break anything?" Mark asked and Stephen winced.

Nightstalker shook his head slowly. He reached back and grabbed hold of the spike, and steeling himself, he pulled. Screwed up, his face looked even more terrible, and with the shadows flickering on the harsh planes and angles he looked like a shifter, what Stephen undoubtedly would have called a glam. After an endless or seemingly endless moment, the spike came out of him. He shuddered and threw it aside. He tied bandages, to Mark they appeared to have started life as another of Stephen's blankets, over the massive wound the spike had left and sat there for a moment, not breathing.

"Hell," Stephen thought, if I were him I'd rely on the infection to dull it, too," but when Nightstalker's eyes opened again, they were once again the silver-grey they had all seen for just a moment during the battle.

"Holy shit!" said Mark, "now that some serious hurting!"

"It's infected," Nightstalker said.

"No, duh," Mark said, his mouth opening before he could stop it, "I thought that the reason we were fighting zombies and evil organizations bent on general world-wide fuckary was that some asshole had a Halloween party and forgot to tell everyone to wear costumes, so the real monsters showed up instead. Of course it's infected!"

"No, you don't get it!" Nightstalker replied, his voice showing nothing to indicate that Mark's comments had offended him, "It's infected! Like, radiated!"

"Oh," Mark said, his mouth not in his control yet, "like there's a difference?" But then Mark saw the difference. The spike was glowing with a sickly green light. He had seen such a light before in Mid-World, when he, Stephen, and Alison had encountered a colony of slow mutants.

"Those God rotted spikes appear to have been coated with radium," Stephen observed, "or some other type of metal the radiation from which usually creates slow muties in my world. Can the ... infection, this X virus, resist it?"

"Maybe," Nightstalker replied.

"What will happen to you?" Stephen asked.

"It would be better if you didn't ask that question," was the response.

Stephen left it. Mark opened his mouth and Stephen shot him a glance.

"Don't," he said darkly, "This is not the time to continue playing ka's fool."

Alison stirred, turning onto her back, although it clearly caused her pain. Stephen knew exactly why she was doing it. He knew that she didn't want them to see what was happening to her. She was a gunslinger, and the mutation she was undergoing, a mutation she didn't yet realize was giving her wings and the ability to fly, something she had wanted since early childhood, was impairing her ability to fight. Mark went to her immediately.

"Turn her over," said Nightstalker, "Alex. His name is Alex," Mark thought, as he aided in turning Alison onto her stomach.

Mark's first look at Alison caused a stab of fear, but not fear of her; it was fear for her he felt. On her back the bones were warping and appeared to be broken.

"Her energies are normal...for her condition," said Alex. New bones, delicate and fragile, were forming out of the broken mess of her back, "But if it doesn't form correctly ..." he trailed off.

"She's screwed," Mark finished for him.

"Exactly," Alex responded.

"Can you help her? Can Marie?" Mark asked desperately. He had come to believe that Alex and Marie were both, thanks to the infection, very powerful, perhaps the most powerful breakers he or anyone had ever encountered. And he suspected something else. Whatever else the Corporation was trying to do here, they were attempting to restaff the Devar-Toi. With the breaking of the beams in Tower World B halted and the destruction of the Big Combination in Tower Keystone, things probably weren't going very well for Tower Keystone's version of Los, if there ever had been two versions, and he probably wasn't very happy about that.

"Marie's in no fit condition to do that, Alex sent, more harshly than he meant to, proving Mark's theory, "and I don't want to hurt her, but I can do one thing."

Gently, he laid both large, scarred hands on either side of Alison's body. He grew still, so still he was like a stone statue. She shuddered under his touch, trying to twist her body. He held her firmly.

"Don't move!" he sent to her, "I don't want to hurt you!" To himself: I've done enough hurting people for one lifetime."

He sent energies into Alison's body carefully, delicately touching the forming bone structure. He perceived the layout of the structure and recognized a deformity already. He traced it. If it continued, her wings would grow broken. Not only would she never fly but she'd have chronic pain for the rest of her life, and because she was infected, that would be considerably longer than most humans'.

"How does she manage it?"

It was a not exactly unexpected question. Whilst on the rode, Ashlee had told them of how her daughter had been bitten and had become one of the undead mere seconds later.

"How does she manage? And you?" at this point, Alex looked across at Stephen.

"The will of a gunslinger is enormous," Stephen replied, "we have controlled the mutation with our will alone."

"Really?" Alex looked startled. "Interesting. ... Her bones are forming improperly. I can't fix it."

He stood up. Beside Alison, Marie twitched and opened her eyes. "Something's wrong."

"It's nothing," Alex said too quickly, too reassuringly.

"Yes, something's wrong." Marie tried to sit up and winced.

"Damn fool will rupture herself if she doesn't quit," Mark thought, "and why did he have to say it was nothing? To the best of my knowledge, there's no better way to let someone know something's wrong than that, unless you come right out and say what the problem is."

"Don't even," Alex sent, a sending that was meant for Marie alone, but Mark heard it as well.

"Thanks, I totally didn't know yet," she said sarcastically. "Damn it!"

"We have to get back to Miria," said Stephen quietly.

"Oh, hell no!" said Alex, "I can't go there!

"Yuon can take care of you," Stephen insisted, his faded blue eyes flashing. It was the way he usually looked when he would have things his way and would suffer no argument.

"I'm not going to Miria, not like ..." he didn't need to continue. They all suddenly found quite interesting things to look at, pointedly not looking in Alex's direction. He sat there, silently ignoring them, looking darkly inward.

Only Marie was looking at him. Eventually he met her eyes.

"I'm not going to Miria," he said.

"You're going to Miria," Marie countered.

"I'd like to see you try and make me," Alex shot back.

"Oh, Jesus Pumpkin Pie Christ in a side car," Mark said, "don't those two have anything better to do besides argue all night?"

"Jenna's on Miria," Stephen said quietly, ignoring Mark's outburst.

Alex gazed at Stephen intently for a moment as if telepathically probing him for information and when he spoke again it was confirmed that that was exactly what he had been doing. "Then: I will go," he said.

"Well, thank God and the Blessed Mother that's over," Mark muttered, "but how the hell did he know about Miria? None of us were even thinking about Miria till you said we had to get back there, Stephen."

"Later, gunslinger," Stephen said, producing the vial Yuon had given him from somewhere, probably one of the pockets of the jacket he was currently wearing. Inside was a glowing light. He opened it. The light resolved itself into a white bird with unimaginably soft feathers. The antithesis of what some on Miria would have called a bladebird, a flock of which Ashlee had seen immediately before meeting the gunslingers.

As the glowing white bird vanished into the sky, there came a sound of wings, but not the wings of any bird ever seen on Earth before the X virus had been released.

"We've got company," Alex rumbled.

The owners of the wings were soon above the camp. They were larger than any bird Mark had ever seen, but Stephen immediately thought of the great dark birds that eternally circled the Blasted Lands in the far north of All-World beyond the ruins of Gilead, and another glance confirmed his suspicion. They were of the same hell-spawned sort. Their feathers, if one could call them feathers, looked to be made of some dark, but shiny metal. Their eyes were red as blood and their dark grey beaks and silver talons were cruelly curved and wickedly sharp. In a way they looked to have been constructed, but there was nothing mechanical about them. They were, despite their appearance, organic. Stephen suspected that these creatures had come from the Todash darkness, sensing the impending death of the world, intending to feed on its very life-force or kef in the high Speech that had been. Parkus had, in the long ago of his childhood, told him of the legend of Ghalemma Múrdegh, of whom the Mirianas whispered the darkest suppositions. She alone had penetrated the great spaces of the Todash darkness and had returned unaffected, for she was and always had been pure evil. And whenever a world approached its final end, she would call her flock and would, together with them, descend on that world and absorb the last of its kef, following which, so said the Mirianas, that world would be no more, even its memory gone from all universes.

"Bladebirds!" Alex cried, leaping to his feet with such speed that even the gunslingers could hardly follow the movement. One of his guns fired. There was a shriek, and something came hurtling out of the sky with a smoking hole clean through its head.

"Now what's this barbecued bull shit?" Mark asked to no one in particular, "first we have zombies, then we have zombie dogs, then possessed maniacs in helicopters, then Nemesis, then insane corporations, and now we have fucking man-sized birds with metal feathers! What's next, Mirianas with knives? Talking rocks? Me growing wings, maybe?"

The birds were on Alex in a flash. He was a blur of movement, as fast, if not faster, than a gunslinger. Stephen and Mark had drawn guns in a movement almost as fast. Bullets and bladebirds flew and fell. One undead bird hit the fire and, shrieking, rose up flapping into the sky, sparks flying from it. A bullet flew so fast it seemed to appear in the thing's head by magic and it fell again, well and truly dead. Alex's heavy booted foot descended on its head for good measure.

"Mayhap these things are mere servants of Ghalemma Múrdegh and not of her kind," Stephen thought, "Parkus said that her close kin could no more be killed than bumblers could learn to speak backward. Mayhap we have a chance, but gods! So many of them!"

Marie had sat up and, steeling herself, began to drag herself away on her arms. Telekinetically and as gently as she could, she pulled Alison and Niamh with her.

More and more bladebirds descended from the sky. Mark and Stephen cut them down as soon as they came into range, but there were too many, far too many.

"Where in the name of the gods is Yuon," Stephen thought, "if she doesn't come soon, we're dead!"


	5. Chapter 5 Iyana's Tale 3

Iyana woke to the sound of the little doctors, the ringing of the bells, and Jenna's footsteps approaching.

"You must eat," Jenna said, holding a silver bowl in one hand and a variation on a spoon in the other.

The food offered was familliar to Iyana, as it was a Mirian dish rather like soup. She finished the contents of the bowl and looked at Jenna.

"You said you want to hear the rest of my story," she said.

"Ai," Jenna answered.

Iyana settled back on the bed, thought for a moment, and said, "I woke slowly.

"You're awake."

I looked up into a familiar face. Standing before me was an ethereal being, as slender as Tiannen but shorter than Faeya Marilin's mother, but she had wings of great rainbow beauty, like butterflies' wings, folded neatly over her slender shoulders. Her bone structure was now definitely more avian, and her face definitely birdlike, the sharp, elegant, curving nose, the high, curving brow, the prominent cheekbones, the bird-bright star-eyes and the small mouth with its delicately pointed chin, it all was strangely birdlike, as if she were half ancient Miriana, half bird.

"Yuon!" I cried.

"My child, my child," she replied, and she could call me that; I had only lived a fraction, an eye-blink, of her lifespan.

"Yuon, Simon is dead!" I said, feeling the shattered connection. The shock of it sent my mind reeling. I wanted to cry, but the tears wouldn't come. I lifted my hands...

My hands! My hands were large and green, with the gold symbol worked on the palms.

"Yuon ..." I began. "What exactly did you do to me?" And then I caught myself. I was speaking my first language. I knew at least a thousand languages, some I'd learned as second, third, and even fourth languages in my many lives. My first language was the home speech of Miria. It was not suited for the human ear. Its many subtleties would be lost on any human who heard it. The Mirian language had many subtle tones, fluid, liquid sounds and overtones that were meant for the delicate, sensitive Miriana ears and the minds with their attention to exquisitely fine detail. It was an elegant, liquid language that sometimes seemed more song than speech.

"Yuon, give me a mirror," I said when she didn't respond.

She produced a reflective glass.

Well, I must say, for a Miriana I was quite fine-looking. Large, beautiful, still-pool blue eyes, round, slightly misshapen, smooth body, a rich, healthy, dark green hue, large, capable, nimble, graceful hands, and the delicate symbol of the majik adept which is so much more than majik and includes a little of all ... yes, I suppose for a Miriana I was quite fine.

For a human, I would have been incredibly ugly. My face was rather flat, the eyes overlarge and the nose flat and large, my head big and oddly triangular, my body too round, and the delicate, long-toed feet too large. I was slightly over three feet tall, and a rich, healthy deep leaf-green hue, my eyes blue like a gem, like one of the bottomless sapphire pools high in the mountains. Quite a range of blues could pass through my eyes according to mood and awareness-focus, anywhere from a light, flower-blue of excitement to that deep bottomless-pool blue of higher awareness deep-trance states.

"I want to see the look on Daniel's face, I really do," I said. And I could see, with all the intensity of the Miriana focus, down to the subatomic level, and into higher awareness levels where I could see the streams of psychic energies on seven different planes of this dimension. I also had the intensity of my focus on all of those levels, and could peer into the minute details no one could ever have dreamed of seeing on the lower levels of the astral plane. My eyes flicked rapidly through their focuses and levels, my resilient Miriana mind dealing with what would usually amount to an overload strong enough to cause a heart attack.

"We haven't found Cianan's soul," said Yuon. "We were hoping you could help."

Our link had grown so strong that we were literally mind-to-mind, a contact closer than skin.

Only the majik adepts knew links like this. They know a little of everything, and practice a little of everything. Majik devotes itself mainly though to the deeper mysteries of life, the workings of the inner soul, the majik of worlds and song, the studies that in themselves took hundreds of thousands of years. They let me graduate at my fifteenth cycle, but in majik, one never stops learning. They created the School of Majik to preserve something of the great early days when tales of our majik were known across the known dimensions. They called us stars fallen to earth and made into beings of light, for we alone were spun from the Essence itself. We were not simple, frail shells with a mere tiny spark of Flame Eternal, but Essence made living and breathing. But then again, the Essence does live, and breathe. Its breath is the wind, its heartbeat that of the universe, its voice that of the stars' music, its eyes the myriad jewels of the stars themselves, breathtaking against their velvet black tapestry of night.

And majik knows this. Very, very few become majik adepts anymore, and there are only two great Masters of Majik left, Lord Tiannen of Light, brother to the Great Mother Andelin herself, who sits in supreme rule, our benevolent queen, in the High Court of Ithelian; and Yuon, ancient and childless, so none remembers now from where her line came. She is older even than Tiannen, older than Andelin herself. Some say she is billions of years old, the oldest alive. And still she remains powerful, her intellect and her power surpassing all else. She'd been offered the high seat when the last Queen faded, but she had declined. There had been rumors flying for quite some time as per her reasons for that.

I reached, reached, but there was an icy void there, it seemed. I employed all the powers of my Miriana mind and reached, wrapping a melody in thought and sending it winging, like a small, stone-blue bird with streaks of varying shades from rose to bright gold, a diamond pattern of a darker, paler, softer gold, black feet, and a clear, glowing beak, its tail streaming out white behind it. I sent it along the connection, winging swiftly and surely, with all the strength I could contain within it. When the bird found his spirit floating among the stars, it would open its beak to a normally impossible size, and capture Simon's soul within its warded substance. For the bird was hollow, its body a thickly woven shield.

Yuon had seen what I had done.

"Will it have enough energy to trace its path back through four dimensional gateways, all several galaxies apart, and halfway across a universe?" she asked skeptically.

"Possibly. I am no mere student, and majik is my craft," I said.

"I'm sorry. I keep thinking of you as though you had only graduated and gotten your official First-level rank twenty-seven years ago." She shook her head. "My, time seems so strange sometimes."

I looked around me. I was surprised! I was in no city, but in a simple sung house.

The way the rural houses are made, among the adepts that tend toward the majikal or life studies, are made of sung life. Yuon is quite good at singing things. There are the mistwood trees, those that can be thought or sung into shape by the superior mental power of a Master, and then songreeds and songwood and songmoss. These still require intricate melodies, but one does not need to be a Master in one's art to sing growth out of them, merely the musical knowledge. Those who devote themselves to music, the Memoryspinners or Taleweavers as they call themselves, or simply the song or story adepts, sculpt things out of songplants. Their Memory Masters' mistwood art is legendary. Some say that the Memory Masters, countless aeons ago (or the beginnings of them because this was far enough back that the Miners were in control and majicians worked for themselves alone and could not always be fully trusted), sang and thought the great cities into being, a task that took over a million years to complete.

I was in Yuon's own sung house, I realized. It was spacious enough. She had sung it, rather than from the ground up, out of a grove of mistwoods, so that there were several levels overlapping within the high branches of the great, stately trees themselves. Spiral staircases with intricately designed banisters wound themselves around the ancient trees' trunks.

"Yuon! How did I get here?" Dumb question. "I mean, why am I here?"

The old, laugh-lined face crinkled into a smile. "We saved you when your soul left and put you in suspended animation."

"Why am I not in Tilianum, or Lucianum, or just in Tilian even?"

"You can't expect Lady Andelin to welcome you with open arms."

"What?" For all the superior intellect of my Miriana mind, I was confused and uncomprehending now.

"You failed her precious mission." Was that a tinge of resentment in Yuon's voice? The great, ever-loving, all-embracing Yuon?

"Lady Andelin thinks I have failed? And the Court agrees?"

"Apparently," said Yuon. "No one dares to question Andelin."

"Why not? That doesn't make sense?"

"She blames you for Earth's infection and the discord surrounding it. She says if you could just let something like that go, then what else could you let go? Our world?"

Andelin's assumptions stung. This wasn't like our kind, benign Queen. What had come over her?

As if reading my thoughts, Yuon said, "The whole Court has been acting quite strange lately." As the one Bonded to Andelin's own brother, Yuon had a great deal to worry about herself here.

"Yuon, what will Andelin do to me?"

"Andelin has demoted you. She sent you to Tilian and is thinking of sending you away."

"Is there anything you can do?"

"No ... but maybe. I have allies within the Court."

I didn't like the way she discussed this. It was almost as though we were speaking of the High Court of Faery, not that of Miria, the benign planet with its gentle people and kind, generous Queen.

"I have friends among the Memoryspinners," said Yuon, "and Tiannen will always side with me." She smiled. I understood that look. No Miriana, even with our great powers, save the Memory Masters and majik adepts could appreciate the Bond. It was a higher form of life-bond, a different kind of love.

"Does Andelin still listen to Tiannen is the question," I said.

"Oh, I think she does. Iyana, how could you have saved a planet? She can't say you failed."

I only shut my eyes. It took me a second to realize I couldn't, I'd have to shut the vertical lids first. I shut both sets of eyelids and sat there, depressed.

I felt a long, slender, delicately boned hand rest on my shoulder.

"Look at me, Iyana, look at me."

I flicked back the horizontal lid and peered up through the distorted semitransparency of the tough inner lid. "What?"

"I promise I'll vouch for you in Andelin's court, Iyana. I won't let you down. Alai was like my daughter. I might as well have raised her. And then she became one of the most brilliant majik adepts, a Master at only three million. That is beyond rare. Most achieve mastery at third stage, after over forty-five million years, but Alai ... she was special. And she was so bright, so very, very bright. But she always had the best heart. She would give her life for those she loved. And she wasn't ashamed of loving anything, any being, any plant, any world, any star. And she chose, rather than to move to Lucianum with the Masters, to stay here. She did not even stay in Tilian. She chose to come back to me. I see so much of her in you, Iyana my child, so much." There was an old pain in her eyes. To Yuon it might as well be very recent; the unknowable span of her life saw a mere six millennia as a blink of an eye.

"I swore to Alai, Iyana." There was pain in her voice, terrible pain. "I swore to protect you. As I loved her like a daughter, so I love you, because I am childless." Her smile held no warmth. "I will have no heir. Some have many, some like Alai have one, I will have none, and when I fade, my life will fade to myth because for as long as anyone can remember, I was a mystery." And suddenly her arms were around me, and I felt how thin and brittle she was, and she was crying. Poor Yuon! She felt so fragile, so delicate, so brittle and ethereal and slender. She felt like a feather could break her.

I let her cry. I cried, too. I cried for innocence. I cried for my lost love. We cried together for the beauty that was slipping away. We cried because we needed to. We cried freely, millennia of restrained tears falling from our eyes.

I remembered a good friend of mine, Lacey, from Earth when I was a child. She had felt like Yuon, so fragile and delicate you wanted to hold on to her just because you were afraid the wind would blow her away and you'd never see her again, and the thought of that was so unthinkably, unspeakably terrible and heart-rending that by your own life, you wouldn't let it happen, not only wouldn't but couldn't, because then you would want, no, need, to shatter into so many little sharp pieces that it just wouldn't matter, and the pain would be lost to the cold. And remembering those old friends, the friends from all the worlds I'd lived on, I cried as my heart tore itself apart and healed itself over and over, and each time a little more of me went with them. I had left something crucial behind on all those worlds, my innocence, my loves, my lives.

When our tears subsided, she let me go. There was a new depth of understanding between the incomprehensibly aged, fragile being and I. I had never understood, until now, just what Yuon had endured over the countless aeons, and just how fragile she had become. I remembered her being much stronger than this when I was little more than a child. Her color was lightening now; I remembered her being a deeper, richer gold. The colors in her wings had not faded, but lightened, so that it was easier to see through their folds. They were more transparent and brittle. And in her eyes was a new depth, a new grace. I had never seen a Miriana that neared their end, but I knew that no other had lived as long as Yuon, and that all things fade in time.

I watched her ascend the stairway silently to the contemplation chamber above us, the masterpiece that had taken so much energy and such a long time.

I got up and went out and down the wide spiral, into the clearing below. My Miriana memory knew this place.

My feet carried me down and away from Yuon's home, and across her gardens. There was a place where the mountains encroached upon the gardens. I walked across the great expanse laid aside for Yuon over the billennia, and found the little valley. It had high stone walls round the open sides, and a flight of stone steps cut into the steep side of the valley.

In this restful, quiet, beautiful place were Yuon's masterpiece flowers, the most beautiful and exotic. In the center was a clear fountain rushing from a spring and into a deep, deep blue pool, a sapphire pool. I looked over its side and could not see my reflection in it. In fact, I could see nothing in it but a faint, faint light. The pool led to a stream that flowed out beneath the wall.

I walked down the jade and turquoise stone path to the pool, watching the light move.

On an impulse, I spoke to it.

"I can't find him," I said.

There seemed to be a questioning in the air.

"Simon," I said.

There was only puzzlement.

"Cianan, son of Miriel and Rhilinon."

There was a deep sorrow emanating from the sapphire-studded onyx of the pool's bank.

Set above the mouth of the spring was a great stone. It was clear and faceted, reflecting and refracting rainbows from the fading sunlight. It was the entity of this pool, Corunan it was called.

Corunan was now turning a sad, cold blue. The waters of the pool wavered.

I was looking down on to a view of the stars, breathtakingly beautiful. There were swirling energies among the stars, veils of light, and they seemed almost as though they could reach out and call for me, touch me, sing to me ...

Something flitted across the surface.

It was a small Miriana figure, so insignificantly tiny against the stars.

The spirit called to me, fragile, alone. I reached instinctively ...

"Don't touch the water!" said Yuon.

I spun. She was standing there, wrapped in a rehtaef cloak.

I turned back. I cast the bird from a warded melody again and sent it like a blue, white, and gold to red streak into the water. I felt Yuon move up beside me, felt her infinite presence, wise and warm like a glowing candle, a fountain of warm light that kept away all darkness.

"What do you see, child?" she said in her musically soft voice.

"Simon," I whispered.

I felt the bird hurtling back up. Quickly, Yuon took a breath, and blew as if whistling. A bubble of light formed as if from bubble gum, and swallowed the bird. She lifted a hand, cupping the bubble in her hand.

"Come." She turned and strode up the path, tall, stately, and beautiful, green and blue cloak billowing behind her.

I followed Yuon back up to her house. We did not go up into the trees, though; she bent to the foot of her great tree and pressed on a large knot.

The massive tree trunk was hollow! I realized. Inside were stairs, narrow but smooth, with shallow, easy steps for the smaller, short-legged, large-footed first-stage Mirianas. A Miriana changed most in the years it took to grow from first to second stage.

I had never seen this place before. We descended into the caves below. They were carved from the knoll.

There was a large room that looked like part of a medical facility. "This is where we kept you and Cianan." She went to a large, white, unmarked container, one of four in the room. She unsealed it, and opened it. Cold gases wafted out.

There, within, in repose, was Simon's perfect Miriana body. He was also quite fine-looking, I realized absently.

Yuon opened the light bubble, and it vanished. The melody bird lay dying in her palm.

"Quickly, quickly!"

I rushed to her side.

"Wait for my signal." She positioned a light over the bird, so that it was between the light and Cianan's forehead.

"Now."

She switched on the light and let the bird go at the same time. I sucked its waning energy. There was a psychic mist. It entered Cianan and vanished.

Yuon gently lifted the body from within the container and resealed it. She ascended the stairway, which met the great tree's own spiral inside the trunk. In its center was a huge carved column, a mistwood masterpiece, intricate and laced with rainbow vines, their small moonlight-colored flowers nodding, closed. They would open at night, and shine. Somehow Yuon had made the outer wall transparent as well, laced with a vein of gold where the stairs met it. On either side we passed quiet, tranquil rooms.

We reached the room where I'd slept, and she laid Cianan-Simon in the bed of rehtaef. Automatically, it snuggled around him, conforming to his shape. Every plant, in fact nearly everything Yuon used, was still alive.

Yuon left me to await Cianan's awakening.

Nearly three hours went by before he opened his eyes. "Where am I?"

"In Yuon'Lia's home," I said.

He looked up at me, and stared incredulously. "Light ..." I could sense his thoughts whirling as all his twelve million, eight thousand, three hundred and fifty-nine years of memory came back to him.

"Iyana!" he said.

"Yes," I said.

He looked up at me. "Yuon'Lia ... where is she?"

"Yuon's upstairs. Yuon!"

Yuon glided noiselessly into the room, as if on cue. I knew she hadn't been spying. She'd been called by Cianan's awakening.

"Give him the mirror," I said. Yuon held it up. Cianan's eyes practically popped, if it was possible.

"A Miriana." He started laughing.

"Er, it's not all that good." Yuon explained what had happened. Cianan's spirits deflated.

"What the fuck is her major issue?"

Yuon looked shocked; apparently she knew the word. Yuon knew more than she let on, and well, she let on a great deal. I was sure Yuon knew over a billion forms of communications, the in-depth histories of scores of planets, every known majikal secret in the known universe, all the most highly advanced maths and sciences and so much more. I wouldn't be surprised if Yuon already mysteriously knew Earth's language, history, geography, inner workings of its social structure, and so much more, in detail.

"How could we save a planet? She might be able to, but she's Andelin! That's different!" He'd gotten up now, the stiffness of millennia eased by Yuon's healing, and was pacing.

"Sit down. It wouldn't do good for either of you to exert yourself this first while." Yuon pushed him back down and he fell backward into the rehtaef bed. It wrapped itself around him and he was left lying on his back, feet in the air, tangled in feathery material. I had to laugh at him as he fought his way out of the clinging, soft substance.

"Andelin is corrupt," said Yuon finally. I could see how much it took for her to say that.

"I would be careful who you let hear that."

Yuon didn't even turn. "I trust you, Tiannen. If you tell, I'll know what I've wasted, love, trust, and over a billion years of my life."

Tiannen swept into the room, tall and stately beside her small, slender, fragile form, but less fragile-seeming. He gazed at Yuon with piercing intensity. She stared right back.

He looked away first.

"I see both of you are awake, and speaking of Andelin, I was just in Ithelian vouching for the both of you. I got Iranikus and Alinorun on your side too."

Iranikus was Lord of the Night, some said. He was not evil, simply darker, and kept to himself. He was the last of whatever he practiced, but he had three apprentices, Sharion, Ithilin, and Arinius. They did not speak of what they did either. Iranikus was dark and quiet. He spoke little and was always cryptic, but he tended to be slightly impulsive and go on his instincts. As well-honed and finely-tuned as Iranikus's intuition was, some did not like his impulsiveness.

Alinorun was an old forest lord, quiet and green, serene and calm. You couldn't help but to trust Alinorun. His very serenity and calm itself was the best persuasion, for though he spoke little, one would do well to heed his advice. Not much was known about Alinorun but that he was of the line of the forest deity, Olirion. There were probably records somewhere, as there were for all their people, and though every record was open and nothing was secret, few ever bothered to look at them in their old, dusty Hall of Records.

"Iranikus isn't the best choice, but at least he's something," said Yuon. I was saddened that we were planning cold, calculating strategy that would divide the High Court. Nothing like this had happened in six thousand years.

"Alinorun was more than I was hoping for," Yuon continued. "He's always been so peaceful. I wonder what his motive is for joining us, the rebels." That word sounded ominous.

"Alinorun promised to speak to his people. With the Nightlings at our backs, I fear we will inspire fear, not the urge to follow us," said Tiannen.

Behind their backs, the three apprentices of Iranikus were called the Nightlings, or Darklings. They were of a unique form, for Iranikus was their parent. He had created them in his image, slimmer than most, taller than most, and darker than all the rest. Arinius's eyes were black swimming with flickering star-lights, Sharion's were a dark, dark green, but every once in a while there were flickers of a faint molten gold in those eyes. Ithilin's eyes were midnight-blue, and she could show any vision of stars and moons in her eyes, or the great tapestry of space could roll through her eyes when she meditated. I'd seen it once. It was breathtaking. She, of the other two, most loved the stars and moons and their bright lights, while Arinius loved the dark and Sharion the forests at night. He could often be seen, a still small (but taller than any other first-stage being) figure, slim and lovely. They all had dark, shining skin. They were perhaps the strangest of the beings that still remained on the Surface. It was said Andelin had been reluctant to let them stay on the surface, and that they had some secret treaty with the Queen.

"Tiannen ..." I began.

"Iyana."

I looked up at him. He must have seen something in my eyes. More likely the force of my emotions was conveying to him. I was filled with mourning, mourning for the loss of the beautiful peace of Miria. The Ulich Aena (the Dark Ones), antithesis of the Elenimin Lintennainin (the Shining Minds), are the dark spirits drawn to the world's power. Good cannot exist without evil, as evil cannot exist without good. Where there is either there is always resistance, and Miria's resistance was rising.

"But come on! There's so much we haven't seen! Seriously, Andelin hasn't made her decision yet."

"A lot has changed," said Yuon, a warm, glowing smile on her warm, creased face. I could understand why everyone loved that smile. Yuon's kind personality, which would have been called grandmotherly by any human, and even better her smile, made one feel so warm and peaceful, as though nothing bad could possibly happen. It made everything seem blissful and perfect. You couldn't help but to love her and the quiet, perfect serenity that surrounded her. It wasn't the intimidating brightness of her intelligence that left you in awe, though her intelligence certainly exceeded that of most in Ithelian, Tilianum, Lucianum, or any of the other great cities. It wasn't the deep, contemplative serenity of the fabled old mages. It wasn't the achingly beautiful simplicity of that serenity, either. It was simple happiness in its purest, most warm form. It wasn't the kind that makes you cry. It wasn't the wistful kind either, like the memory of happiness.

It was love. Yuon loved freely. Yuon was compassionate and forgiving. Many say they say what they mean and mean what they say, but Yuon truly does. Why regret when one's life is so long? she says. I have only lived so long because I am sure I have nothing to regret. Regret is what kills an immortal. Yuon loved life, Yuon loved everything. She embraced everyone with open arms, drawing them in and shining on them that simple, easy, sweet love that comes so naturally to our kind.

"How can a lot change in five thousand years? For you ancients, that's nothing."

Yuon's smile flashed bright in her golden face. "You'll see, you'll see."

"I'll leave you to your playing then; I've things to do," said Tiannen, and he flitted out like a shadow.

Yuon led us down the stairs. We flitted out into the gardens. Yuon had bred lots more unusual flowers. I always loved Yuon's experiments; she had wonderful taste in her combinations when she bred hybrids.

Yuon paused at the gate to her private garden, with the pool where I'd awakened Cianan.

We went down to the pool. The water cleared as we neared, and the great crystal's telepathic voice resonated, deep and ancient. This pool had been here before Tilian, before Yuon had lived here, before anyone could possibly trace back.

My children, it spoke, and as we neared, the water cleared. It showed a tapestry of space. I recognized the space around Earth's solar system. It zoomed in closer; the planets were in great detail, and then an image of Earth and its moon filled the pool. The moon was dark that night, so it merely floated bleakly there beside the cloud-wreathed planet. Breaks in the clouds showed blasted landscapes, jagged and impassable, and dirty grey-black oceans. Everything was dead. Cities, tiny specks on the surface, lay abandoned. Earth was no longer a blue planet, it was dark and ugly and dying.

The picture zoomed in, over a continent, then a country, then farther into a lonely road that passed through high mountains, mountains that rose majestically, bleak and black in the dim shadowed light the constant heavy clouds let through.

There was a lone truck driving precariously on the icy, slick road. To one side was a cliff that dropped, sheer and icy, to dizzying depths. Far below in the gorge, an icy silver ribbon was running. On the other side were high, jagged impassable mountains. The whole scene had a stark, dark, lonely beauty.

Suddenly a black shadow streaked over the scene, a bird with sharp, metallic feathers, polished to a bright gleam and sharpened to a razor's edge. Its huge, wicked looking silver talons dripped fresh blood. It was carrying something, and I gasped when I realized it was the body of a small child wrapped in grey, tattered, bloodstained rags. Its jagged wings spread majestically, darkly over the scene as it gained altitude. Where it should be sharp and crude, it was sleek and incredibly refined, its predatory look beautiful in a cruel, terrifying way.

"A Bladebird," said Yuon gravely. "The great Ghalemma Múrdegh herself. She who comes from Ulikkar with her flock to absorb the life force of worlds." Suddenly she plunged her hands into the water. It roiled, boiling, but the glow from her hands lit the blackness pink. Tendrils of steam rose off the fiercely bubbling water, but she kept her hands there, unperturbed.

The crystal's light dimmed, and the rock itself shivered. She has discerned my gaze on her, it said in its deep, ponderous voice. Where once that voice was serene and melodic, resonating with a deep, calm, rich timbre, now it was higher, somehow sibilant. It sent chills down my back, and gave me a curious unpleasant feeling, as though I were smelling some sharp heavy chemical that was making my head heavy and fuzzing my senses. Suddenly the feeling intensified and I slumped forward against the pool's edge, clutching the sapphire-studded onyx banks. I swayed dangerously. Cianan tried to hold me up but his new form made that difficult.

Yuon reached out a hand and placed it on the crystal. "It's hot! If it breaks ..."

There was a clattering, pattering sound down the turquoise-emerald path behind us, and Tiannen was there. Yuon had fallen silent and gone strangely pale. "Yuon! Yuon!" Her head slumped forward. Gently, tenderly, he lifted it and looked into her eyes, drawing her close, half-carrying her trembling body, stroking her feathery hair.

"Andelin will blame us," I said quietly to Cianan, "if Yuon'Lia dies."

Her lips moved soundlessly as she gazed up at Tiannen. He pulled her hands out of the water and dried them.

"The Laimé Arelinon has been poisoned," said Tiannen gravely, "by Ghalemma Múrdegh." He turned on his heel, leading the unresponsive, unresisting Yuon away.

"She was so happy, just two minutes ago," I said, stricken.

"She won't die, Iyana."

I felt a ray of hope. Cianan had the Foretelling sometimes. Maybe he was truly seeing this.

We turned to follow, but I felt the crystal gasp. I turned back to it.

It was going to fracture. The entity of the great crystal was dying. Impulsively, I reached out to touch it, and when I did, my hands were locked on the hot, shivering stone. Cianan stepped up beside me and watched as the crystal's light merged with mine. I was so weak that I slumped forward, only supported by my hands glued to the rock.

Then the crystal's ancient presence, beyond old, old as the planet itself, trillions of years old, spoke to me.

Ghalemma is not as old as I am. Ghalemma holds not the power of this world. Can you summon it? Can you help me?

I considered, but time was running out fast.

I must.

A bit of the crystal's energy flowed into me, so I could help it summon the necessary power. I knew how hard it must have been to do that.

I took the energy, cast my mind into the planet, and called.

Light, come forth. Light, banish the dark. Love of beautiful Miria, surround us, banish fear and pain ... and save Ghalemma.

I knew that last bit was the right thing to do. Killing her would displease the soul of Miria, taking any life without great deliberation always upset the great old mother spirit of the world. She always tried to seek other alternatives, killing only when absolutely necessary. But there is a time when all must fade, and Miria knows this as well as any world soul who has seen as many years as she.

I looked down at the great crystal, feeling power return to it slowly ...

And I fell suddenly, face-first, into the pool.

I may have fallen for a second or an eternity, I didn't know. My limbs were locked in place and I was being pulled. I heard the whirling of the water around my body. But I grew numb, and then all I could hear was a quiet hiss, like water in plastic pipes. I could see nothing; I was in utter blackness when I flicked open the first lid, but I had the sense of a great, vast space before me, endless and filled with water, and an abyss below me. If I ever got out, I'd have to tell Yuon there was a cavern beneath her crystal.

If I ever got out, I thought, and it suddenly donned on me that I might never get out. I switched my breathing off, which automatically put me in a higher-awareness trance state. I upped my focus and sensitivity, so I could feel even the movements of the tiny unicellular organisms in the water, and see the barest flicker of light like a bright beacon. Hopefully no bright lights would go off and nothing would make a strange sudden movement.

There were none. At least, none were moving.

I realized that I was the only disturbance here for years, possibly. Otherwise this water stayed black and so still it was frightening.

This unnatural absence of life and movement unnerved me. How could this be possible?

Suddenly a crackling red light descended from above in one direction, ghostly radioactive green in the other, and a flickering, icy blue from below. I shut my eyes, barely avoiding crying out and getting a mouthful of the strange water.

Something began to hum. There was a mechanical click-click-clack, then a great choking sound as if something were being dislodged, and then the great blue thing hurtled at my face. The water grew warmer by at least twenty degrees. I felt chemicals swirl up where the blue thing had left, toxic combinations, some I knew were drugs used for torture on dark worlds ...

Suddenly I was surrounded by something sticky and red, blood-red tentacles of goo that drifted slowly up to my face. The great blue thing wrapped a mass of sticky, clinging ooze, like a sack of goo, round me. Below I could see a bubble of the red thing, and I could see that the bubble was diseased, swollen and discolored. What did it want? Healing? That I couldn't, and wouldn't anyway, give. The thing was pulsating strangely, as if with breath, but it was no heart or lung. Streaks suddenly spread across its surface, weak places, streaks of a discolored filmy mucus.

It was going to rupture in the water. It was going to die horribly and decay here. I was about to be surrounded by nasty infected goo, and be poisoned. The outer film ruptured. Something strained and the bubble burst. Dark fluid gushed forth. The tentacles tensed, shivered, spasmed, let go, and flailed wildly.

I could see it had taken quite a long time for it to get into this condition, or a long time compared to what was happening now. It must have taken it three or four months to get to this stage, this point of no return. Tattered red shreds hung in between the folds of tentacles, and as I watched in horror, the infection turned back and swept through the exposed organism. With my higher focus I could see individual cells bursting, thousands and millions at a time. It may have taken several hours for this to progress but I saw it as if it were in seconds, the organism torn to shreds, its ragged, dying scream, high and thin, indelibly etched on my memory.

What horrors lived here? This was Miria! This was the prize emerald of the cosmos, the center of life, the most evolved and powerful world but two, an island of serenity in the stars, that was Miria.

I felt myself being drawn upward. The hissing turned to a normal sound, the water flowed normally, and I was out, pushed over the banks by careful invisible hands. For a moment they lingered, gentle fingers moving, inscribing signs over my face. They were not Miriana hands but they were seemingly human, and they knew the star-codes, and had the eternal will of a spark of Time itself to use it. Then they slipped away.

I lay there, face down in the miniaturized rehtaef plants around me. They waved gently against my face and round my body, comforting, kind. They whispered softly, "Whhhhhhhaaaat doesssssss botherrrrrrr ourrrrrrr f!ffeatherrrrrrry f!ffffriend ..." they said in slow, measured, soft tones.

"Iyana! Cianan! Iyana?"

It was Tiannen, racing down the path. He looked down at me, and his face grew grave. He lifted me and motioned for Cianan to follow.

"What happened to her?" he asked as they began to make their way away from the pool.

"I don't know," Cianan replied.

I sent Tiannen the memory. He stopped, cursed in seven different languages. The language that seemed to dominate was an extremely old tongue spoken by the last remaining inhabitants of a now dead world. The language was somewhat like High Speech, but different in several ways. Some, in fact, refered to it as the "Dark Speech."

_"Eyelab! Eeelah-eyelah-a-babbalah naz! A-babbalah _why? A_bunnaloo _coy? _Kazzalah! Kazzalah-CAN! Fie! SHY-fie! Blet! Blet ky-yam doe-ram kazzalah a-babbalah! Rast!"_

We reached Yuon's tower. She was standing at the bottom. She seemed a little dazed, but otherwise alright.

"Iyana!" I heard her say. I felt her walking beside Tiannen on the steps. I felt her long, exquisitely sensitive, cool gentle fingers brush my face.

"The A-virus," she said. She'd sensed it through the stupor my mind was in. "Engineered quite a long time ago on Earth by a dark Fae."

"Can you heal it?"

"Possibly. But she won't like it. The medicines that must be used are ... intense. This is a super-infection, resistant to all but the strongest drugs, and those will take a toll on her strength."

We were at the room I'd woken in. I was laid down on the mats. The rehtaef curled round my body.

Yuon ran her hands down my body just above my skin, stopping with each hand on either side of me. Beams of light met in the middle, making a joined questing beam. It entered my skin. I felt something, like a heavy knot, loosen inside. The stupor lifted somewhat, and I was merely tired now.

Yuon stroked my face with one long finger and I fell asleep.

I awoke suddenly, aware that my insides felt like they'd been stretched as far as they'd go without snapping and tied into intricate little knots, and it was also too hot, the air too heavy.

"How are you feeling?"

"Fine," I croaked. Yuon raised an eyebrow.

I tried a smile, if a weak one. I was sure it was unconvincing. "No really."

Yuon's sculpted blue eyebrow rose so high I thought it would disappear into her feathery white hair.

Yuon was strange. Unlike any other who'd hit a billion, she'd shrunk, and was now only a foot taller than I, diminutive compared to anyone in her stage.

"Okay, kill an indestructible infection," I said.

"Aren't you done with infections? Can't the infections leave you alone? Are you a magnet for super-bugs? Honestly, you've had three in thirteen years."

"Hey, one was intentional, manmade, and beyond my control," I said.

"And so was the other one. And so is this one."

"This is Fae-made, Yuon, big difference, they live for eight thousand years, humans live for eighty. They're indestructible, highly majikal, and inhumanly beautiful. And to a human or a Fae, that's a big difference."

"Fae, human, bird, whatever," said Yuon. "It still doesn't occur naturally. No, you're not a magnet for infection, you're a magnet to be the center of universe-altering upheaval, just like..." She shook her head. "How do you manage it?"

"What, are you jealous?"

"Definitely not."

"Where's Cianan?" I said.

She was silent.

"Yuon?"

"In Ithelian," said Yuon finally.

"What's he doing in Ithelian?"

More silence.

"Spit it out, Yuon."

"Speaking before the High Court, before Andelin herself."

I fought to sit up. Yuon gestured, and the rehtaef locked around me.

"Damn it, Yuon!"

"You're not well enough, Iyana. You are not bouncing off your deathbed to go to Ithelian and yell at Queen Andelin; it's just not possible!"

I lay back. You couldn't argue with logic like that. But I didn't like it.

"I'm sorry, Iyana. You'll get your chance. Andelin hasn't completely lost her mind."

"This is why they say madness and corruption come with power and immortality. This is what's wrong with Queen Marsaili, with King Ariandil."

"Andelin is not a Marsaili or an Ariandil," said Yuon firmly, "and I pray to the Mother Miria that it will never come to that."

"It will mean impeachment."

"Andelin won't be satisfied with that. It will mean death."

War on Miria, I thought. Must it come to this?

"He'll be back by nightfall, I promise. You're not really on your deathbed; you've got a few months and I'm sure I'll find a drug strong enough by then. Otherwise, I'm flushing the infection out of your system by majik, and that will be very unpleasant indeed. If all else fails, well there's always drastic measures. Are you sure you've never gotten the Plague of Mortality?"

"On Mai're," I said numbly. "Forty-eight years ago."

Yuon ran her hands through her cloud of wild white hair standing out in all directions from her narrow head. "That makes things more difficult. You may have to ride it out on your own. Then, in your next life, if you're sent out again, that is, you'll be immune, not only to it, but its next-life after-effects." In vain, she tried to flatten her hair. It just made it worse. "I'm sorry, Iyana, there may be nothing we can do for you."

The Plague of Mortality is the only known infection that immortals are susceptible to. It's also vicious, insidious, slow, incurable ninety-nine percent of the time, a doctor's worst nightmare. Its cause is unknown exactly, but there are theories. There's a part of every being's system that it can only attack, and this varies from species to species. It's usually somewhat uncommon but not very rare. And it follows you from life to life if you're not an immortal. But there is a point of no return, and trust me, if you think you're in pain now you can't even fathom the pain you'll have then. You will know when it's a lost cause." Vainly, she tried flattening her halo of white hair again. "I don't think it'll come to that."

"Wait. As a human, I had it, and beat it."

"Not really. You had nervous damage from the form it hit you in." Another bad thing about the Plague of Mortality is that it doesn't have one form, it has many. Its common form in humans, though, tends to be mainly one disease rather than several. I suppose I mutated it, or it spread. You're not supposed to live if it spreads. No one has lived if it's not isolated, because if it spreads it means bad things, let's just not go into the nasty details. No one, no matter how lucky or how advanced medicine has become, has managed it. It just doesn't happen.

Or I got the Miriana form of it, and that's why it was undiagnosable and also why they couldn't pinpoint quite where it was. Strangely, they dismissed it. I was sent home. My fever climbed past 104 for a week solid, during which I truly knew a living hell, and still everyone dismissed it. Subtle Corporation workings, probably.

"I suppose you're right." I gasped and shut my eyes. I could feel myself subtly, slowly being put delicately off balance, as if I were standing on a knife's edge, and there were only two ways to fall, and it was all too easy to fall to the roiling turmoil on one side rather than salvation on the other. The infection had a life, and a mind. This was not just going to be a battle of wills, but a battle of wits, a battle of the mind.

The infection couldn't win.

I realized this with such certainty that there was absolutely no way I could die. The full force of my Miriana will and of my fate was behind it, and a Miriana with fate on her side is a thing any being, microscopic and deadly or no, would have sense not to face. But this is an infection. There is no sense, no rhyme or reason to all of it, no method to the madness. The only word an infection with a mind can think is "Kill, kill, kill!" as it subtly and insidiously orchestrates your demise. Black majik, though evil, is ingenious.

I waited impatiently for the rest of the day, burning with questions for Cianan, whenever he was coming back. Yuon wouldn't let me up and confined me to my room, despite all my protests.

Apparently she'd told Cianan about the situation. When he came in, I had millions of questions.

"What did they want to talk to you about?"

"The mission, mainly. They made me tell them seven thousand years of stories, no details omitted. It took days..."

"How long have I been out?"

"A month."

"Shit!"

"Iyana!" It was Yuon.

"Sorry."

"It took days to tell them all that. Then they spent time questioning me on every detail. It was all really boring."

"What did they say about me?"

"They demanded why you weren't there. I had to tell them you were unconscious. They didn't believe me, and I'm not entirely sure they believed Tiannen and Yuon."

"Did anyone side with you?"

"Iranikus and Alinorun, as Tiannen said they would. Eligúlin did, though how many would agree with him is sometimes questionable."

I sighed. There wasn't much else we could hope for.

"Eligúlin doesn't want to divide the Court," said Cianan. "He talked to me some, more than I would have expected of him. He doesn't talk much to anyone."

"He's very much the wise, quiet, green Master of Botany," I said.

"He's Eligúlin," said Cianan. "There's no more to say."

"What about Andelin?" I asked.

"Andelin forged a form for herself, tall and pale and slender. She looks very much more the Fae Queen than the gentle Miriana Queen."

An image came to me then, an image that was a tall, pale specter of a being with a wave of raven's-wing hair and high, hawklike features, Yuon's bird face, intensified and warped. There was something very birdlike about her, something essentially birdlike. It disturbed me that I couldn't put my finger on the quality I was seeing in her image, her hair swept back by a sterling silver and hematite clip, her jade eyes circled in black, her red, red lips, and that birdlike essence ...

"Her voice is very birdlike, very beautiful," Cianan said. "But she is ... warped."

I got the distinct impression she was as well. "Yes," I said. "I can't quite name it."

"That disturbed me, too," said Cianan. "She sat alone. Torian was gone."

Torian had been the consort, until now. Where was he? I wondered. I pictured the slender, gentle, submissive Miriana and cursed Andelin. Andelin was essentially corrupt now and had been for years apparently. What would happen to Torian? What had she done to him?

"I asked Eligúlin about Torian and he only clicked and said, "What do you mean?", which didn't make sense."

"Iranikus wouldn't have bothered with pretending," I said. "Why not ask him?"

"He bothers me sometimes. He's so intense and dark."

"I want to go to Ithelian, Cianan, I have to. I have to tell them what really happened on Earth. I'm absolutely sure the Corporation is far ahead of the rest of humanity and had agents everywhere." I sighed. "One may have taken advantage of Andelin's corruption."

"A Miriana ruler, corrupt," said Cianan, and sighed. "What are we coming to?"

The days passed and I grew progressively weaker. Yuon's theory was proven true, and I could not be healed.

An official summons came from Ithelian, and Yuon and Tiannen told us there was no avoiding it, Andelin wouldn't believe it until she'd seen it.

Two weeks after Cianan came back from Ithelian, we were on our way there.

When we reached Ithelian with its sparkling towers, vast, tiered gardens, and marble streets, we were sent immediately to Andelin's court.

The great capital of Ithelian is built into the side of a high mountain, the Lyl Nulin, the Lone Mountain as it is called. It is a set of nine tiered half-rings, and upon the highest stands the tall, sparkling white and gold tower of Ithelian. This citadel is called Lillin Limarin Eniri, Tower of the Rising Sun. It stands alone, with the sheer white rising cliffs of the mountain as its backdrop, a tall, fair, beautiful needle of white marble and gleaming gold thrust into the vivid blue sky, over a thousand feet high and over a thousand feet in the air. When the rising sun hits it, it is crowned in golden light. The image of this nine-tiered city with its high tower and crown of light like a sun wrought in gold is the sign of the Way, the Path of Light, and the advanced center of power that is Miria. Only the Elenimin Lintennainin and the Masters of Majik are allowed to wear them on their shimmering robes of all colors. The majik adepts wear the simple white-gold seven-pointed star. The Masters wear that and the Sign of the Way. The Mirian Wanderers are allowed to carry them, but not wear them, and only off-planet or at ceremonies and banquets and such functions.

The Elenimin Lintennainin of the High Court can choose their own forms, while any other of their advanced stage remains the pale, star-eyed, golden-feathered norm of their kind, and unless they rise to the level of the Court they can not change their form. They can flow and shape-shift, but they cannot design for themselves a face as can those of Andelin's inner circles.

Yuon had come with Cianan and I. I was supported in a small chair that Cianan pushed. It was humiliating, I, a majik adept, being wheeled along like a baby. I knew I looked sickly; I hadn't slept in days and my color was an unhealthy, pale hue. I could feel hundreds of eyes on me as we passed with our escort, three tall, pale-skinned city guards. They were dressed all in white, with the Sign of the Way embroidered in gold over their left breast. They were slender but strong, upward of six feet tall and with long, dark hair. It was a rich red color, not quite Fae red and not at all brown, but a rich, warm red. Their eyes were a curious amber color. They were very human in appearance, but there was something inhumanly graceful about them, and their graceful bone structure was too intricate and delicate to be human. Yet they seemed to have withstood the test of time, so delicate-looking or no, they radiated strength. They were very quiet and there were very few of them. Their kind were the only trained fighters on Miria, and they were born of Tyalon Antalis. They rarely needed their skills; now they were simply there out of routine and always had been there. There was not one less than six thousand years old.

We ascended the tiers, the lead guard, tallest of them, carrying a Sign of the Way, which he flashed at the great gate to each tier.

The ninth gate was ringed on each side by three tall, stately, white-skinned guards. These were the fighting elite among their kind. There was one standing directly before the gate. He was taller than all of them, with all the grace of an Elf of legend, pale and fair and beautiful. But his long hair, hanging down to his waist, was jet-black, and his eyes were dark, silver-grey lances of memory, knowledge, and a strange kind of distant cold. He was Elandir, named after Aléna's spouse, Aléna, daughter of Alai, Aléna Geuliliel, the Beautiful, they called her, or Aléna Tinnai, the Wise.

Something was swimming over Elandir's skin as he raised a hand. He was dressed differently, wrapped in lighter robes. And underneath the cloth ...

Something was swimming over his body! I watched a tentacle of it writhe and reshape itself over his right side, flicker, and then reshape again.

His entire body was covered in intertwining, fantastic blue designs, and they lived. As I focused on his face they were even in his eyes, but the eye-flickers were silver. Rather than marring him, the masses of blue designs made him look more unnervingly beautiful. Well, beautiful wasn't quite the word.

"He was tied once," said Yuon very quietly. "Radioactive death-vines, on Tiri Anorai by their rebels in the Discord, or perhaps not their rebels. Perhaps it was Tarulon's own forces, or it could have even been Rassilon's few faithful on that world. He was deathly ill when we got him back. He was teetering on a knife's edge for several months, until we were willing to do what we must to save him. Now he's practically indestructible, and he has the determination to outlast the Plague of Mortality on the first try if it hit him."

I gasped. That was impossible!

He didn't speak. His eyes never moved. But the silver flickers seemed to take us in, and then he brought his hand down, the gate opened, and we entered. The guard at the gate took the Sign from our escort as we passed. All but the leader of the escort left us.

We were in a circular courtyard, paved with pale white marble. In its center was a fountain, playing in a sculpted silver pool. Beside it, feeding from it, was a tree, ancient and stately, with white bark and beautiful green leaves. But its most remarkable features were the flowers. They were exquisite golden globes encased in feathery white petals. On an impulse, I reached out and touched one of the globes.

Light spilled out of it, warmed to my hand, flowed into me.

I would live. What I knew for myself with certainty was confirmed by the flower.

I would do something no other had done. Others had survived the Plague, I thought. I suppose it's something different.

A soft golden rain fell past my hand and into the pool. For a moment, I thought I saw Tatyana's face reflected there.

I would lose what I had already won, but win what seemed irretrievably lost. The face flickered, and was gone.

I would break beyond repair but I would walk among my people again, more whole than I had ever been. Something shifted within me, physically. I could feel something changing shape.

I would shatter from within and Fate would put the pieces back together with a hand whose touch guaranteed strange and fantastic things. The unknowing thing stirred again. I could vaguely feel, somewhere distantly, that it was painful, but I was locked to this flower and its light, mind and soul spellbound, captive of the haunting beauty of the falling light.

You will not come out of this unscathed, but forever you bear a sign of strength. My body appeared in the water now, dissolving and reforming. It seemed to crack perfectly in two. Darkness spilled out. But maybe it had just dissolved strangely. It sealed, dissolved, reformed ...

And I bore star-eyes, eyes that knew Death.

You will go to a place where no other can follow ...

The water turned a transparent blue, with scenes flickering quickly in its depths. The last flickers of my body suddenly ran with the water and were gone.

And the final fallen will rise again.

Something within me shattered then, absolute extremes of fire racing through my body, burning every cell with dark destruction, the taint that can not be erased.

In perfect clarity, I sat, holding my breath, so still as if carved from stone. But within me, physically and mentally, a battle raged the likes of which none had won.

And I fell from the knife's edge, past the point of no return."

"And that is how you came to me?" Jenna inquired, "there seems to be no more left to tell."

Before Iyana could reply, Yuon entered, nearly flying.

"Guards!" she cried.

Jenna knew not what Yuon was talking about, but she sensed the urgency in her voice. Before she could stop herself, she shook her head violently and the dark bells rang out, their sound no longer beautiful or soothing. There was a note of power in the sound that none could resist.

At the sound, the little Doctors, except for the ones on Iyana, made for the entrance, their song rising to a scream of fury.

"No!" cried Yuon, "you mustn't! They are Mirianas! You can not set the Doctors on them! If you do ..."

Jenna attempted to hold back the army of Little Doctors, but it was too late. Their wrath had been roused, there were intruders attempting to enter their domain and the dark bells had called them to attack no matter what the cost, they would defend and they would repay any who entered without Jenna's leave.

Yuon sensed that Jenna couldn't hold back the Little Doctors and that the insects were about to attack and absorb the Guards who had been sent by Andelin, probably for the purpose of finishing Iyana. She also knew, thanks to what she knew about Jenna's kind, that if the guards became part of the Little Doctors' magic, that they and Jenna would be, as Jenna had put it, "doomed to eternal damnation." There was only one thing she could do. Summoning the powers at her command, she raised a telekinetic shield between the Little Doctors and the entrance. The insects began, immediately, to pile up against the invisible barrier, their scream of rage still rising.

"Trapped," Yuon thought, "trapped and nowhere to go."

And at the next moment, she felt the power of the summoner vial she'd given Stephen. She began gesturing and at the next moment, vanished, leaving her shield to hold back the enraged army of insects.

"I pray that we will be in time," she thought. Her mind reached out, seaking the other she would need for the rescue operation.


	6. Chapter 6 Miria

Suddenly, as Stephen and Mark were reloading for what felt like the millionth time, there was a break in the attack, as if the bladebirds sensed something, something they feared. From behind Mark came a voice, one he knew.

"Tiannen, take Marie and ... Alex," Yuon said, "I'll take Alison, Niamh, Mark, and Stephen. Go."

In another moment, the dead world in which Stephen, Mark, and Alison had found themselves was gone, and they were once again on Miria. They were back in the court of the fountain, but there was something wrong.

A small tent had been set up opposite the fountain and standing immediately before it were several Mirianas armed with knives.

"What the..." Mark thought, but then his hands took over. He fired both guns and the knives flew from the hands that held them, blades chopped off at the hilts. He then advanced on the now unarmed Mirianas.

"I don't know what you think you're doing," he said in English, not knowing if they could understand him and not caring, "but whatever it is, it's time to go home, kiddies. Play time's quite definitely over."

The Mirianas, apparently not wanting anything to do with Mark and Stephen, retreated as quickly as they could.

From inside the tent came the song of the Little Doctors, but there was something different about it.

"They sound madder than hell about something," Mark thought, "probably didn't like those party crashers interfering with them."

Before anyone could move to enter the pavilion, the scene shimmered and suddenly Mark was looking at a different place entirely. The tent was still immediately before him and Stephen, Yuon still stood beside them, but now they were standing by another pool entirely. Beside this pool was not a tree, but a great crystal.

The other Miriana who had been put in charge of Alex and Marie appeared beside Yuon and together they and Alex carried Alison, Ashlee, and Marie into the tent. For a moment mark thought that Alex wouldn't be able to fit inside, but then he remembered Roland's tale of the Little Sisters and the fact that their Hospital tent was much larger on the inside than it was on the outside.

After nearly two minutes had passed, according to Mark's internal clock, Yuon exited the tent.

"Would you mind telling me what the hell went on while we were gone?" Mark asked, "when we left, Jenna was supposed to be taking care of that Miriana who nearly fell into the pool and when we got back there were maniacs with knives trying to force their way into Jenna's pavilion and the Little Doctors were raising all mighty hell about it. What the hell's happening here, a war?"

"Not yet," Yuon said sadly, "but there may be one soon. You heard that Andelin, our queen has become corrupt?"

"Yeah," Mark said, "but I think there's a bit more to it than that. Stephen said she'd gone over to the red and considering what we saw on Earth I'm more than willing to believe it, especially after what just happened here."

"Why do you say that?" Yuon asked, she could have read the answer in Mark's mind, but since he hadn't given permission, that would have been wrong.

"We saw a man who was possessed or something," Mark answered, "and Ashlee told us how Iyana called him by a name that was never given to any man I ever heard of."

Yuon didn't ask what name Iyana had used, for she already knew it.

"Alundar," she thought, "Gulyan. Their Crimson King."

"If this thing in Allan that Iyana fought is the same as the being we call the Crimson King or Los," Mark continued, "he'd have a reason of his own to have Jenna's place of healing invaded. She nearly was his once, but she left his service before she was ever truly in it and he's pissed as hell about it."

In a darkened chamber, somewhere in time, a lone Miriana sat. Before him was a large ghostwood box. Carved into the lid of the box was a single staring red eye. From within the box came a sense of power, darkness, evil, and the faint sound of Todash chimes. The Miriana moved to the box and hesitantly opened the lid. The call had come and he had to obey.

Inside the box, supported by a black velvet cushion, lay a black glass ball. Within it, a red eye pulsed.

"Torian," said a cold voice in the Miriana's mind, "Torian, you shall be my messenger. You will speak on my behalf to the lady Andelin."

"I cannot," responded Torian, "you are no longer even remembered on Miria."

"Do you think that concerns me?" spat the unseen voice, "I hold the Tower Worlds. In one I stand on the tower itself and in the other I sit enthroned within. Tell your lady that it matters little that the tree of time has been spared. The Court will submit to me.

The faithful of Miria have seen my displeasure. Already there are whispers of discontent. Do not deny it. There will be no respite. Not until the Court abases itself before me. Not until the survivors of the line of Alai are made to experience every torment of the outer desert. Not until the last of the gunslingers of Gilead is dust beneath my feet. I, Alundar, first and mightiest of all the Mirianas have spoken!"

At this, the box slammed shut of its own accord and the sense of power left it. Torian slumped back, drained.

Mark entered the tent and immediately discovered just how words couldn't prepare one for the reality of a thing. He knew, from Roland's tale what to expect, or thought he had until he saw just how large the pavilion was on the inside. Beds lined both sidewalls for as far as the eye could see. Strings of small silver bells hung at regular intervals, ringing softly with every breath of wind, no matter how slight. The interior of the pavilion appeared to be made of white silk, so fine that the light came through it as if through a fare weather cloud.

Alex, his huge form unmistakable, was lying in a delicate crisscrossing of silk-like bands, suspended over one of the beds. Mark wondered for a moment how the hell anyone had managed to get him to submit to that and then decided that he had been too weak to resist. If he hadn't been, he probably would have torn the place down around Jenna's ears, regardless of weather or not her presence on Miria had been the deciding factor in the argument over his coming or staying on Earth. Alison was similarly suspended, as was Iyana, beside whom Jenna currently sat, her small white hand holding Iyana's larger greenish one. Marie was lying at full length in one of the beds, her back supported by pillows, covered up to her chin with a white blanket which appeared to be incredibly light yet soft, warm, and comfortable. From everywhere came the song of the Little Doctors. Mark listened and after a moment, realized that he was falling asleep. The days and weeks on the run through a dying world full of zombies were finally catching up to him.

In a half dream, he saw a blasted ruined landscape. Dark forms moved across it, forms with movement, but not life. As they got closer, he knew that they were undead. Then, something else moved among the shadows, something extremely large.

"Alex?" he thought, but this wasn't Alex. This was something like him, but not the same. He saw a small group of people accompanying the thing. There were two women, one of whom appeared to have lived in desert conditions for approximately six thousand years. "Shadow. She calls herself Shadow." The other appeared normal, but he could feel something in her, something like what he had felt when Alex and Marie unleashed their power at the Corporation agents. The remaining three appeared to be normal. Not only that, two of them bore a striking resemblance to him and Alison. The third looked to be a sixteen or seventeen year old girl. She stood at five feet four, had brownish curly hair and multi-colored eyes.

"Nemesis," he thought, "my god. He's real too, and those other three. I'd bet an eagle that they actually are other versions of me and Alison, but who's that other one? I don't..." Then he remembered where he'd seen her before. It had been shortly before he and Alison had stumbled on the free-standing door in their back field, during the business with the dog or whatever it had really been. She had been there and so had another.

"My god," he thought, "what Ashlee told us about her cousin, her cousin Iyana, and there's an Iyana right here in this pavilion, but how could that be? They couldn't be the same, or could they? The Iyana we met in our when would be at least twenty-three or twenty-four by now, especially if she came from 2016, but the Iyana Ashlee told us about died and awoke in her Miriana body and she's not doing very well at the moment. So who's this one? Just another mystery and I'm damn sick of those. Of course, it's nothing new." After all, he had already seen a great deal before Stephen had found him and Alison in Mid-World.

There had been the time he had driven through the small town of Desperation, Nevada. There had been something there, something evil, ageless, and timeless, something that may originally have come from Todash itself, something...

"Watch, gunslinger," the song of the Little Doctors seemed to say, "Watch and mark well what you see. Watch as the ka of worlds comes together, as the great wheel turns. Watch."

On another Earth, one on which the Corporation was known as the Umbrella Corporation and the infection was known as the T Virus, a young woman whose actual name was Iyana, but whose birth name was Jennifer sat bolt upright, gasping.

It's just a nightmare, it's just a...

There were heavy, crunching footfalls nearby.

"God," she whispered. "When nightmares come to life ..." Steve! Joy!

The two were awake and beside her so fast you wondered how it was possible. Jennifer was on her feet and mentally questing, carrying a command that no normal human should be able to resist.

She came upon a wall stronger than iron, and a vague sense of amusement about it. She recognized altered mind-patterns, super-infected. She thought she knew what this was, but story had it he had died in Raccoon City. How strange...the man of cold, when cast out and exiled in a sense, becomes something different.

"Fucking A, it's...no. No, it can't be."

The amusement grew stronger.

"Quit laughing at me!"

Beside her, Steve was questing, She could feel his mental hands hit the wall, and now she was sure the thing was laughing at them, sure of it.

A massive figure stepped from the shadows. He was easily eight feet tall and built with the kind of power that breaks thick metal...and people...with bare hands. He was dressed in black and his skin was a dark grey-brown. His face seemed chiseled out of some heavy, dark stone. His eyes were ageless and pure grey. They took in the whole situation from a distance, and then he moved toward them.

"Nemesis," said Steve quietly.

The figure stopped just short of the evident boundaries of the camp and looked down on them.

"That's what they called me." The voice was a discordant bass rumble, the speech slow and measured. "I've been looking for you."

"How would you know about us...and what would you want with us?"

"We have a common enemy," he said.

"Umbrella," Jennifer said.

"Exactly. And I know where they are."

What do you think is going on? Jennifer asked Steve.

We resist. We stand. We fight.

"Exactly."

He's telepathic? That one's new.

What do you expect, for someone with shields like that? There was a touch of admiration. Not even a breaker could break that.

From his position as a disembodied observer, Mark wondered how these people knew about breakers. It was clear that none of then had been to Mid-World, but it was equally clear that they all had incredible psychic gifts.

Jennifer's head jerked around. "Did you feel that?" Her blind eyes stared emptily into the dark but her sharp, knife-like mind quested.

"Knew ya'd be here," said a voice in what Stephen, if he had been there, would have called the Low Speech. It was the voice of a woman...or had been. Now it was ravaged and rasping.

She stepped out of the shadows. She was all rough planes and harsh angles, skin weathered and brown, bottomless eyes colorless and somehow, strangely, alien. She must have once been tall and queenly, but she was bent with something like age. Her skin was dark and weathered, her face somehow fiercely hawk-like, those eerie, bottomless grey-white eyes taking in everything. She should be blind; how could anyone see with eyes like that? There was something somehow terrifying about her eyes. Was it their very emptiness, or their very whiteness, or how they seemed to lock on you and seem to try to consume you with their sheer bottomless grey-whiteness? Though Jennifer was only looking at her with her mind, she shied away from her eyes. It seemed as though if you looked into them they would become something alien and terrible, swallow you alive and turn you into something like her. And Jennifer didn't know what she was, but this desert phantom was not fully human, and that was glaringly obvious in those eyes.

But she didn't seem to radiate malice, only a bone-aching weariness of the world and of life and of continuing to plod along with nowhere to go, no life to live, and absolutely nothing to live for.

"I been waitin'," she said in her rasping desert-ravaged voice. "I once been powerful but they took it away from me." She jabbed her finger toward her chest, toward her heart. "Only hollowness there now." She continued to stare at them. Nemesis didn't seem to frighten her at all; in fact in some ways she was more like him than she was like them.

He stared back at her, unsurprised. As their eyes met, an understanding seemed to flash between them. She nodded as if in response to an unspoken question.

"You be lookin' for a resistance and here you find one," she said quietly. "Here you find the strength of the desert, the force of the winds, the power of that what can not die, that be what you find here." She turned to Jennifer, Steve, and Joy "And you be comin' from another world, I'm right?" Seeing the answer in their eyes, she continued. "You be lookin' for revenge yourself, too. I'm right." She leaned forward, sharp elbows on her knees, thin, sharp face in her weathered, scarred hands, and watched them with the piercing intensity of her undivided attention. You could read stories from those heavily scarred, veined hands. "You be wantin' revenge for the death of a planet," she said quietly in her rasping voice. "That's an understandable thing."

Nemesis watched the scene and listened to the quiet that followed expressionlessly. It seemed as though this strong, weathered desert phantom had them under a spell. She was calling to them. He'd once been a master of emotion as well, could play emotions like musical instruments. He'd once been able to smile, lips dripping words like poisoned honey, and you would believe him...until you realized it was almost, but not quite, too perfect.

Maybe this whole mess happened to teach them all something ... to know how to be alive. Or to know how to love.

"Mark my words: you follow us and you will have your revenge," said the desert woman quietly. "We will bring an iron fist down that not even Umbrella be able to withstand. You mark my words, we hold the power, we hold the cards, and we have the strength of the desert at our backs."

Jennifer was spellbound by her, and the eyes, a minute before so terrifyingly, emptily cold and alien, were fiery, full of a mad light. But it was a madness she so desperately wanted to believe.

"Madness," she muttered. "All madness."

"Maybe so, maybe not, but if it be madness it is a strong madness, and this madness don't die so easily, I promise, young one. This madness don't know how to give up. It don't know how to die, to lie down and git stepped on, listen to me!" She suddenly stood, and she stood straight. She was easily over six feet tall, and all of a sudden, where a bent and aged desert woman had stood there was a proud desert queen, cold and shining with a dark illumination. Jennifer saw the power of her and realized how she and Nemesis were alike, but she was deceptive. She seemed fragile, but when she cast that veil aside she might as well be invincible.

"I be lookin' for revenge, too!" The wind picked up her voice and threw it into the desert with a fury like that with which the infection had ravaged the world. "I be thought dead once, but they can't kill me now!"

"Madness," Jennifer repeated again.

"If I be illusion, then I don't know it," said the woman. "I be the music of the desert."

"Do you have a name?"

"They've called me many things. They've even called me immortal. Ha. Immortal. They called me Shadow when I lost my name."

"What do you mean?"

"I lost it. I done forgot it. I don't have a name. I be nameless. I be the Shadow. That's all. But I be more than that...much, much more than a mere shadow."

"Shadows are strong," said Steve.

"Shadows are illusions," said the woman.

"Shadows are of the night and the night is strong and older than the light, and it will last longer than the light. That's the night. The light is a fleeting thing but the night will always stand," said Jennifer.

"The night is a veil," said Nemesis, surprising them.

Jennifer turned slowly. "You're right. ... You're brilliant!"

"Mad brilliance, mad brilliance," he said.

"Oy, that's my line!" Jennifer said.

There was a heavy bass rumble. Jennifer jumped. He was laughing at her!

"I suppose you be right; shadows will last forever." Her face split in a grin. It was like watching sharp, carved stone smile, showing sharp, razor-like dark teeth. Her smile might scare you before you realized she wasn't planning to bite your head off.

So they moved on.

Shadow and Nemesis steered them in another direction than the one they were going. They were to meet up with "the other one," Shadow called her, and neither would say her name, no matter how Joy, Steve, and Jennifer tried to catch them unexpectedly.

Days passed and the desert didn't change. Days passed and nothing changed. Eventually, everything was silent, silent save the howling wind, and the five traveled alone and unmolested. The undead seemed to flock to Shadow and Nemesis, but there was a line they wouldn't cross, a line that utterly terrified them, close to the two super-beings. They traveled by night. "Light confuses me. Light don't like me," Shadow had told them.

But everything was silent. The silence began to weigh on them all, a great crushing weight that grew by the day, until you longed to break it so badly that when you opened your mouth, you realized no words would come...the silence had its heavy hand on your throat. You could not disobey the silence. It said quite clearly: This is my world now. I am eternal. It challenged you: Can you break that what is eternal? And the tired, monotone response: No. Never.

The three would sit on their side of the fire, talking in whispers, but the dead air choked the sound of their voices so it was like whispering into a vacuum. The other two sat away from the fire, each alone, inseparable from the night that veiled them. Jennifer grew thinner, stopped eating, and slept less, but her energy didn't seem to suffer for it. They all seemed to be possessed of an energy that drove them brutally, relentlessly. The days were filled with dust and dark, the nights darker, the hollow eyes of the undead in the distance, the dust, the wind, the dust, the wind, the storms, the rain that the ground simply absorbed as if it had never fallen in the cold, drenching, relentless sheets, more dust, more wind, more rain, and mud like quicksand after the rain, it all blurred and became one colorless torment. They stumbled on, and though Nemesis and Shadow were tireless, the other three struggled until their muscles screamed in protest, their lungs were raw, their bodies wanted to give out. But the terrible energy drove them. With his will and determination alone, Nemesis kept them moving and they moved. Eventually even the pain died, everything was numb and deadened, they grew tough and strong and understood intimately the crushing, driving forces of the desert planet Earth had become. They came upon no survivors, and the three pure humans eventually became somewhat like the other two. They ate little, something would not allow them to sleep, and they moved, the terrible energy that drove them relentless, everything relentless. It was surprising how much ground they covered, but all sense of speed and movement and direction had left Jennifer and she felt like something hollow, automated, dead, moving only because she was told to, because that was all there was to do, because the only alternative was death or worse. And no matter how much they wanted to die they were driven on, the will of Nemesis and the power of the unnamed energy undeniable. It was like his mere influence gave them some of the remarkable traits of the super-infected. And it may have.

One day, they stopped early. Shadow broke the silence.

"We be close."

There was no denying that fact; they could all somehow feel the closeness of the Corporation as if it were some dark, foul, infected thing, twisted beyond recognition. It was like the feel of the undead but it was cold and calculating as well, a driving presence that threatened to break them with its will. Nemesis and Shadow seemed to challenge it readily. The others were like dead things. Nothing felt, nothing mattered, nothing lived and nothing died for them. Only the will of Nemesis, a shadow or a veil cast against the will of the madness nearby, afforded them a semblance of sanity. His presence was like some kind of cold stillness, and though it was not what Jennifer knew as sanity, it was not the roiling, chaotic madness that she knew lay beyond the shadow of the great, invincible presence. This presence had known and risen above that madness. No matter how alien it was, it was still not the madness. Jennifer found that she hated that madness so terribly that she feared her hate more than the madness itself, because she was capable of such a cold, mad emotion. She suddenly hated herself for feeling that madness, and mentally drew closer to the presence. A wing of it enfolded her mind in cold, and a deep voice spoke out of it.

You see what I have seen.

She shivered. "I see madness!" Her broken voice broke the silence, cut it like a knife, and was whipped back to her, and hit her in the face. She could almost feel it and lifted both hands to make sure she was real, pressing them against her dirty face, sand and dirt ground into her skin, and she shivered again, and not with cold.

The vast, alien mind was silent for a moment. Then the figure moved closer to the fire, shadows flickering against the harsh, warped, dark face, the grey eyes staring out into a distance, seeing what they could not.

"Will you fall to that madness?" He spoke aloud, quietly, but his voice hung in the silence, which was not willing to accept it.

"No." The harsh word was torn from her by a sudden cold wind that swept up.

His grey gaze bore into her steadily, reading her. His face was expressionless, harsh stone carved in sharp angles, lit by the fire. She could feel his mind, and no shield would stand against it, she knew. And she knew he read her fear. The others were silent, afraid something crucial might break if they so much as took a breath. Jennifer was still as a statue, eyes and mind unveiled.

"What's out there?" she finally asked. Her voice was thin and weak, torn away by the wind. All of a sudden, all of the weakness, all of the weariness, that she'd been denied by the energy and the determination crashed through her like a wave, and she sunk into a half-sitting position.

"You can't know that yet." And he receded from the firelight, and was again a part of the shadows, and the bone-aching weariness crashed through them all, as the alien, tireless energy released them, and they were once again only human...worn-out, frightened, tired, and suddenly so fragile and light that it was frightening.

Only they could sleep. Shadow and Nemesis kept watch, still stone sentinels in the night, just beyond the circle of the dying fire.

Alice came upon them at some point the next day, but the others were still sleeping. She didn't seem surprised to see Nemesis and Shadow there.

"You nearly drove them to death!" she accused.

"They'll live," said Shadow dispassionately.

Alice turned cold eyes on Shadow. "What were you thinking?"

"That we had to be on time. Without aid they wouldn't be fast enough."

"They won't recover for days. What you did was dangerous and you know it."

"Maybe so," he said.

"They're powerful psychics, they be fine," said Shadow.

"The veil is still over your eyes," said Alice, "and your mind."

Shadow turned sharp eyes on her. "I have no veil! I beat it back! I am eternalized!"

"Nothing is eternalized!"

"Shut up!" said Nemesis.

They both looked at him.

"We won't accomplish anything this way! There is no veil on anyone's eyes, or on their minds! You can look for yourself."

He was right, of course.

"Well, let's get them somewhere safer than this," said Alice. She, Shadow, and Nemesis each carried one of the sleeping people away, slipping like shadows through the night.

"We've taken over this facility. It's dedicated now to the Resistance. On the surface, it's dedicated to coming up with a cure. Our isolation makes that easier."

They were let in, the guards staring curiously at Shadow, incredulously at Nemesis. As far as everyone knew, he was dead. But here he was. They shouldn't be surprised, really, Alice thought.

"Mark," Stephen said, tapping him on the shoulder.

Mark sat up with a jerk, the vision suddenly broken, nearly drawing his left gun.

"Stephen!" he cried, "don't fucking do that! I almost put a bullet through your fucking head!"

"Cry your pardon," Stephen said in the High Speech, "but oughtn't someone to keep watch at the entrance?"

"Do you think those goons with knives will be back?" Mark asked, "they seemed not to want to fuck with us once I disarmed them."

"One never knows," was Stephen's only reply.

"There is no need," Yuon said, approaching the two gunslingers, "they do not know where we are."

"That's another thing," Mark said, turning to Yuon, "what the damn, deep fried, crispy crap happened out there? I'm not used to being in one place one second and another place the next."

"I teleported us," Yuon answered, "Mihrél Elaehnin Lehña and all within it were in danger. It was unsafe where it was."

"What mean the words you speak?" Stephen inquired.

"The Place of Healing Bells, Klisana in the High Speech," Yuon answered, "Jenna wished not to taint this place with the same name the lost ones called their's."

"So where are we now?" Mark asked, "I take it we traveled a pretty good distance."

"You are in my gardens," Yuon answered.

After Yuon had gone to help Jenna with something and then left for somewhere else, Mark exited the pavilion and began exploring what Yuon called her gardens.

"Wow!" he thought, "she should have put up a sign saying _**YUON'S**_ _**GARDENS**_ in big, bold all capital letters with double underlinings!"

From where Mark stood, he could see what at first glance appeared to be no more than a large grove of trees, the like of which he had never seen before, even in the wooded country of Mid-World, but another glance informed him that they were far more than mere trees. The layout of the grove was far too regular to be any work of nature on this or any other world. Some of the trees appeared to be pale grey, others a soft, faded blue, still others soft green. The pattern of the grove formed an elaborate support system for a complex network of passages, ladders, stairs, bridges, and rooms, all of which seemed to be composed of the same wood as the trees from which they seemed to have grown. In the center of this seemingly manufactured grove stood one tree, taller than the others, with a cluster of rooms surrounding a central chamber which caught Mark's attention. He thought he saw a movement from somewhere within this natural hiding place, and after a moment, during which he dropped his hands to the buts of his guns, Yuon descended from what appeared to be a totally transparent room located at the highest point of the tree's crown.

"This must be my day for getting the shit scared out of me!" Mark cried, moving his hands away from his guns, "you're the second friend I nearly blew away this afternoon or whatever time it is."

"My apologies," Yuon said.

"What exactly were you doing up there?" Mark asked, "keeping an eye out for more morons with knives?"

"No," answered Yuon, "I was merely looking out at the world and remembering happier times."

"May I ask a question?" Mark inquired.

"Indeed you may, gunslinger," Yuon said.

"How exactly did you get those trees to grow that way?" Mark asked, the awe showing in his face and voice, "I've never seen anything like it."

"I sang them into shape," Yuon answered, "they are mistwoods."

"Ok?" Mark said doubtfully, "so, let me get this straight. All you have to do in this world when you want to arrange trees in a certain way is sing to them?"

"Not exactly," Yuon said with a smile. She spent the next few minutes explaining to Mark, how in ancient days before her birth, the Memory Masters and taleweavers had first developed the art of singing growth and shape into the very plants and trees of Miria. They had had their greatest successes with the mistwoods, from which large structures, such as houses were formed, songreeds, from which elaborately sculpted things of great beauty had been made in the Long Ago, songwoods, also utilized mainly for decorative purposes, and songmoss, which, when used in conjunction with a plant known as Rehtaef, formed the bedding in Jenna's pavilion.

Everything the Mirianas used in their construction, save the stones which formed their great cities, was alive, and remained so, even when construction was complete, and the art was incredibly ancient. There were even legends that said that the great cities themselves had been sung into shape by Magic Masters at the dawn of Mirian civilization, causing the belief, among some, that the very elements of the planet were alive. Many of the rural houses of Miria, such as the one Mark was currently looking at, had been sung into existence thousands of millennia ago or longer. Yuon had sung this grove into being and had made it her habitation since before the last queen but three had been born, long before Andelin, long before her predecessor, Morgrim, the last true Mirian emperor had even been thought of.

As Yuon spoke, Mark looked about, not missing a word. Everywhere he looked, he saw flowers such as no man had ever dreamed of. Their colors were in some cases strange, but each of the blooms was incredibly beautiful. Stone steps ascended from the brink of the pool by which Jenna's pavilion stood and appeared to be cut directly into a strangely colored stone wall which served as a place from which one could view the pool and the spring that fed it from above. Further away, there were mountains whose tops were shrouded in eternal multi-colored mists. On all sides, nature appeared to have been persuaded to bring forth its greatest beauty.

"How long did it take you to make all this?" Mark asked when Yuon had finished speaking.

"As you would say, long and long," Yuon replied, "I began work on this place when I was still green, and did not complete it until after I had grown wings."

"Exactly how long of a time are we talking about?" Mark asked, knowing that the answer wouldn't be mere years or decades.

"I was fifty million of your years old when I began and nearly eight hundred million when I had finished," Yuon said, causing Mark's mouth to drop open in shock.

"Did I hear you right?" he asked, when he could speak at all, "or are you having me on? Nobody lives that long!"

"I have," Yuon responded, "and I have lived longer than most of my kind."

"How long do Mirianas live?" Mark asked, "and why do some of you look different than others?"

"We can live for hundreds of millions, sometimes billions of years," Yuon said, "as for our forms; we are unlike any other species in the entirety of existence. We have seven distinct stages of physical development. In the first stage, we appear as Iyana does.

"The round, green-brown three-foot-tall kind," Mark said.

"Yes," confirmed Yuon, "At fifteen-million, our skin grows greener, we slim down a bit, and grow taller by a foot. At forty-five million, we grow a foot higher, slim down a little more, and our eyes change to the great star-eyes of the advanced intelligence," at this point, Yuon called Mark's attention to her eyes, which seemed to contain entire galaxies in miniature. "At ninety million, we grow another foot and slim down completely. At one hundred and eighty million, we grow anywhere from two to six more inches taller. At three hundred and sixty million, our skin turns golden. At seven hundred and twenty million, we grow wings. Throughout the remainder of our lives, unless crowned as a Lintennainin, we grow paler and shorter. Few, even among the Lintennainin ever lived above a billion, except the line of Tirion. Actually, very, very few of us live to be above nine hundred million unless raised to Lintennainin. At seventh stage, we are complete, and our degeneration progresses far more swiftly than our growth. Along with the decrease in hight, comes a transparency of the folds of our wings, and a physical weakness. This is what we call the Fading Time."

At this, Mark saw a look of sadness cross Yuon's face for a moment and then it was gone, as if it had never been.

"It's beautiful," Mark said, referring to Yuon's house and attempting to hide the fact that his trained gunslinger's eyes had seen the momentary change in Yuon's expression.

"Would you like to see it from a closer perspective?" Yuon asked.

"Yes," Mark answered.

Yuon led Mark toward the grove and then up into the trees themselves. He had a bit of difficulty with the stairs that Yuon had sung into existence at various points inside her house, as they had been made for Mirianas, not humans to ascend.

"Good thing I never had a problem with heights," he thought.

After nearly half an hour, by his internal clock, had passed, Mark found himself in the transparent room Yuon had exited, causing his second unexpected scare of the day. He looked in all directions and saw the mountains he had spied before, only from a higher perspective. Their shapes stood out against the sky and from this new vantage point, Mark could see through the mists that capped their summits. He turned another way and saw, far off, what could only have been a great sea. A third turn showed him what he supposed was a town or small city, and a fourth brought him a far off view across open fields to the horizon.

Looking down, Mark could see into all the rooms of Yuon's "sung" house. To the left and right were seemingly endless rooms, but Mark knew that there had to be an end. After all, he had seen the borders of the grove from below.

After a short time spent looking down toward the pool, Mark's attention was drawn to the crystalline sculpture, or whatever it was that stood near the pool on the side nearest the spring that fed both the pool itself and probably the gardens as well. At first it appeared as transparent as the room in which he and Yuon stood, but as he watched it took on a bluish tint.

"Did that crystal just change color?" he asked, ready to believe anything.

"It often does, according to mood," Yuon replied.

"What is it and what do you mean according to mood?" Mark asked.

"It is the great crystal Corunan," replied Yuon, "and in its own way it lives. It was here before living memory began, and through the quintillions of years during which the Mirianas evolved, it has been a guiding agent. It can see far off, into other worlds, other universes. Maerlyn attempted to duplicate its power in the thirteen bends of the rainbow, but ..."

"You know about Maerlyn?" Mark asked in astonishment.

"Indeed I do," Yuon answered, her face once again taking on a sad expression, "but none on Miria speak of him and will not until his soul has found redemption, atoned for his past evils and avenged itself on the one responsible for his unlawful exile."

"Who and what was he?" Mark asked, "and how do you know about him? He came from Stephen's world or so all the legends say."

"That is a story for another time," Yuon said, "one you will hear when ka means for you to."

No matter how Mark pressed Yuon on that particular issue, she said no more. Eventually Yuon led him back to ground level, explaining that she had to aid Jenna in her attempted healing of Iyana, Alex, Marie, and Alison. He already knew that Stephen wasn't on Jenna's list, as he had shown no signs of mutation. He was, apparently, able to control what the X Virus was doing in his body, although Christ only knew how he was doing it.

Mark walked through the gardens, drinking in the sights. It had been, as Stephen would have said, long and long since he'd seen anything beautiful. He cast his mind back.

"The roses in Can'-Ka No Rey," he thought, "that was the last time before I saw the inside of the pavilion. Too much beauty has faded. Too much ..."

He heard a sound behind him and whirled, guns out. He had been expecting a knife-wielding Miriana or perhaps a small army of them, but what he saw was Ashlee.

"Now that you've successfully taken about fifty years off my life," Mark said breathlessly, holstering up, "what do you do for your next magical trick? Blow up a planet, maybe?"

"Sorry," Ashlee replied, "I just came out to ..."

"Take in the sights?" Mark finished for her, turning it into an inquiry at the same time.

"Yes," Ashlee replied.

"Well there's plenty to see," Mark said, "but unfortunately I can't be your tour guide. I know no more about this place than you do."

"Iyana told me some things," Ashlee said, "before the Corporation took her. Before we thought she'd just picked up and left without saying a word."

"Sounds like that's just what they wanted everyone to think," Mark said, "especially that child killing cunt, Janes, or whatever it was Marie called her."

"Before we left Alaska and tried to get into Canada," Ashlee said, "Iyana told me that she pronounces her name as Janice, but spells it Janes. Some Corporation prisoners never found out how she pronounced it. They only knew how it was spelled."

"Who the fuck has a name like that?" Mark asked, "a total and complete psycho? Oh, that's right. That's exactly what she is!"

"Sometimes I can't tell if you're really joking or just trying to lighten the mood for everyone else," stated Ashlee.

"A little of both," Mark responded, "but I'm off. I got a look at the supply situation back at the pavilion and apart from the stuff in mine, Alison's and Stephen's packs, we're not very good on food. We lost most of what we picked up in those towns, not to mention almost all our blankets and clothing when we lost the truck."

"How will you know what's good for us to eat," inquired Ashlee.

"I'm about to have a little conversation with Yuon about that," Mark answered, "and after I find out the answer to your question, I'll find out what they use for money here. That way I won't get thrown into any dungeon for thieving."

Less than fifteen minutes later, Mark was off and making his way toward the town he had spied from Yuon's observation room. He had been told that he would find everything he needed there, making it unnecessary to travel further than he absolutely had to.

He arrived in what appeared to be the center of town as the suns, for there were two of them, he saw, were beginning to sink in the, west? east? one direction or another, and made for what appeared to be an open air market. Yuon had written out a list for him in the Mirian language just in case those he encountered didn't speak English or the High Speech of Gilead, and he began showing this almost immediately. The list turned out to be unnecessary, though. The Mirianas he encountered were, as were almost all their kind, telepathic, and the transactions were completed in short order, except for one. More material was needed for bedding in the pavilion and the Miriana responsible for obtaining this for Mark was being extremely slow about it.

"Do I have to wait for it to be oh my god thirty on Fuckuary thirty-seventh, nineteen dickity two for this stuff?" Mark finally said, "I'm in a bit of a hurry here. This stuff is for people who are injured!"

The Miriana he was speaking to appeared to consider for a moment as to weather or not Fuckuary thirty-seventh, nineteen dickity two was an actual date, and, apparently deciding it wasn't, caught Mark's impatient tone or thought, and move more quickly, all the while giving him a look that said he knew that the human before him had made a joke at his expense.

When Alex woke up, he was floating. The first thing he heard was the sound of crickets. He hadn't heard that sound in ... oh, a long time ... But they weren't crickets. The sound was soothing.

Then light slowly returned to his eyes, his senses coming alert one by one, gradually.

And then something started to shift within his essence.

No! Please, don't try! he cried mentally. You can't bring me back!

The song rose, discordant in distress, and then stopped. Tiny tickling feet descended off his back, and then pain hit him full force. He gritted his teeth. The infection seemed to sear his very blood.

The song of the insects cried out and they were back on him, swarming over the gaping wound in his back. He could feel it knitting himself, and before even the echoes of the pain of that could hit they were stilled.

"Don't heal what you cannot...that is beyond anyone's ability," said a sweet, clear voice, and as the woman's voice moved closer, there was the sound of bells, clear musical notes falling from the air.

I don't deserve this, he thought. I am a broken thing. But something the insects seemed to deny that. No, no, you are you, no matter what they do!

He gritted his teeth as the wound knitted back together, as the poison was sucked out. It was a strange sensation.

It's over, it's done, the song sang soothingly. They disposed of the poison. Alex lay limp and exhausted.

Marie, he said weakly.

"She's sleeping," said Jenna. "And yes, we might be able to save her. Go to sleep, walker of the night skies, sleep."

It was telepathy that he didn't want to resist.

"What does a guy have to do to get some simple rehtaef and songmoss on this planet?" Mark asked as he handed these purchases to Yuon, "live in the town market a while?"

Outside it was dark, but inside there was a soft light playing about the walls and roof. The Little Doctors still sang, but their song was now purely one of sleep. Mark felt it affecting him and lay down on an unoccupied bed. The Little Doctors ascended to him, investigated him, and then withdrew. His eyes closed, and as the song of Yuon which would shape the songmoss began, he fell into dreamless sleep.

From her palace in Ithelian, Andelin cast her inner eye abroad. She knew that there were yet more offworlders on Miria and that three of them were gunslingers of Mid-World. They had been an unlooked for complication in her plans. She had sent royal guards to take the life of Iyana, as the message she had been given the previous day had said, but they had returned disarmed and frightened. Apparently, one lone human had made certain that her orders had not been carried out and the same human had been sighted in Tilian purchasing various items. No one in her service there had molested him, as Andelin knew well that such as that one was a dangerous one to cross, a hardcase as some in the world from which he had come would have called him. She attempted to see where he and the others who had come with him were, but she could not. A veil was over her sight. They were hidden. She knew that she must wait for them to move, not just from wherever Yuon had moved the place in which Iyana lay, but from Miria itself before she could learn of their whereabouts, but she had time, nothing but time. She had almost half a billion years before her, and the humans were pitifully short lived things. Until she received another message from the one who was aiding her in her quest for greater power, and to hold onto the power she now had, power she no longer had any right to hold, informing her as to what action to take, she certainly could wait. In a relatively short time, the humans would die, and Iyana and Cianan would be at her mercy.

Mark awoke to the sound of the Little Doctors. He raised his head and looked about. The light in the pavilion was dim, the morning not very far advanced. He saw that Jenna was already up, if she ever truly slept, and making her way up the aisle between two rows of beds.

She stopped by the bed over which Alison was suspended and looked down at her.

"Still no change," she said, "gods. Still no change."

Mark didn't need to ask what the problem was. He already knew.

Jenna moved on, stopping by Marie, who seemed to be improving a bit. After a moment, Jenna seemed to come to a decision.

"She can be allowed to lie flat," she said softly, as if to herself.

She moved on and this time stopped by Iyana, who seemed to be awake, although Mark couldn't tell for sure. He had never observed a Miriana asleep and so didn't know what to look for.

"Jenna," Iyana said quietly.

"Yes," Jenna responded.

"I sense new minds," Iyana said, "who are they?"

"One is known to you," answered Jenna, "three others are gunslingers and two more came from Earth."

"Gunslingers?" Iyana asked, a note of surprise in her voice, "why are gunslingers here and how did they get here? I thought they were all dead."

"No," Jenna responded, "not all. And they are here because of the business that brought you to me."

"Why would gunslingers be interested in what happened on earth or what's happening here on Miria?" Iyana inquired.

"Because this business concerns more than just Earth and Miria," Jenna replied, "it concerns many worlds. This business concerns the Dark Tower."

"How many worlds?" Iyana asked.

"Da fan," Jenna said in the High Speech of Gilead that was, "worlds beyond telling. There is a Tower that binds them in place. Think of it as an axle upon which many wheels spin, if you like. And there is an entity that would bring this Tower down. Ram Abbalah. The Crimson King. His physical being is pent in a cell at the top of the Tower, but he has another manifestation, every bit as real, and this lives in Can-tah Abbalah, the Court of the Crimson King."

"Two places at once," Iyana said, "like Alundar."

"Yes," Jenna replied.

"If he, or it, destroys the Tower, won't that defeat his purpose? Won't he destroy his physical being in the process?" Iyana asked.

"Just the opposite," answered Jenna, "he'll set it free to wander what will then be chaos, din-tah, the furnace. Some parts of Mid-World have fallen into that furnace already."

"How much of this should I know?" Iyana asked.

"No telling," Jenna replied, "if I leave out the wrong piece of information, mayhap all the stars go dark, not just here, but in a thousand thousand universes. The King has been trying to destroy the Tower and set himself free for time out of mind. Forever, mayhap. It's slow work, because the Tower is bound in place by crisscrossing force beams that act on it like what they call guy wires on Earth. The Beams have held for millennia, and would hold for millennia to come, but in the last two hundred years, that is according to time as you counted it on earth but to me it would be Full Earth almost five hundred times over ..."

"So long to a human," Iyana mused.

"In the great sweep of things, it's as short as the gleam of a single match in a dark room," Jenna said, "but while good things usually take a long time to develop, evil has a way of popping up full-blown and ready-made, like Jack out of his box. Ka is a friend to evil as well as to good. It embraces both. You've heard of the Iron Age and the Bronze Age, of course?"

"Yes," Iyana said, "but how did you ...?"

"From your mind," Jenna answered, "I cry your pardon if you feel I intruded."

Iyana simply gave her a smile and motioned for her to continue.

"On the upper levels of the Tower, there are those who call the last two hundred or so years on Earth the Age of Poisoned Thought. That means ..."

"I know what it means," Iyana said, "I had to deal with the Corporation, remember? My last human life was ended because they infected me and twelve chosen others with X, used me as an experiment, along with the others,, released X near anchorage after releasing me from their damn facility, possibly as a test to see how well I'd perform under extreme stress conditions, made certain X was released everywhere else at the same time, turned most of the human race into zombies, killed the rest, and turned the Earth into a wasteland. If that's not a good example of poisoned thought, I don't know what is."

"In any case," Jenna continued with a smile of her own, "rational beings have always harbored telepaths among their number; that's true in all the worlds. But they're ordinarily rare creatures. Prodigies, you might say. But since the Age of Poisoned Thought came on Earth, infested it like a demon, such beings have become much more common. Not as common as slow mutants in the Blasted Lands, but common, yes. Mind readers, precognates, teleports and telekinetics. Mind readers are the most common, telekinetics the rarest and the most valuable to him. Over the last two hundred years or so, the Abbalah has spent a good part of his time gathering a crew of telepathic slaves. Most of them come from Earth and another world known as the Territories. All of the telekinetics come from Earth. This collection of slaves, this gulag, is his crowning achievement. We call them Breakers. Do you know how a galley travels?"

"Rowed by many slaves chained to the oars," Iyana replied.

"Yes," Jenna answered, they are abducted and taken to him."

"How does he abduct them if he's trapped?" Iyana inquired, "does his other manifestation have a hand in that?"

"Oh, he does not have a direct hand in the abductions," Jenna replied, "he has agents in many worlds. In the book known as the Bible on earth, and as the Book of Good Farming in mid-World, there is a quote that goes something like, "In my father's house, there are many mansions." Well, in the Court of the crimson King, there are many monsters. They do his bidding, usually with the promise of some reward, and as they themselves are evil, and sometimes mad as well, the rewards usually involve harm done to others, usually on a massive scale. And if it is not harm done to an entire world they seek, it is the pleasures of those Mark would undoubtedly call serial killers. One of the abbalah's creatures, one known as Lord Malshun, infested a number of people over the last two centuries, ending with a child murderer and cannibal who called himself Charles Burnside. As is so often the case, Burnside, or the thing inside him, did not limit his activities to locating and abducting breakers. He killed and partially ate several children in a town known as French Landing, Wisconsin, but one who served the White made an end of him and of his murderous pastime. The same agent of the White also made an end of Lord Malshun himself, striking a blow against the red by so doing, but for every agent of the red thus destroyed, there are others, and the harvesting of breakers continues."

"So the Crimson King wants to use these Breakers to destroy the Beams," Iyana said.

"You speak as though of the future," Jenna said, "this is happening now. Only look at Earth if you want to see the ongoing disintegration. Of the six Beams, only one still holds true. Two others still generate some holding power. The other three are dead, killed by the Breakers. All in two centuries or less. The job of protecting the Tower and the Beams has always belonged to the ancient war guild of Gilead, called gunslingers in their own world and many others. They also generated a powerful psychic force, one fully capable of countering the Crimson King's Breakers, but Gilead fell long ago and there are only a few left. Three of them are here and the others are in ... another world ... somewhere they are needed, but their force is more than enough as things now stand. The beams were under threat from three directions. There are or were the breakers in a mirror world, the gunslingers who are here think of it as Tower World B, but those breakers were rescued and returned to their own worlds, and then there was The Big Combination..."

"The what?" Iyana asked, "Alexander mentioned something called the Big Combination at the Canadian border. I didn't know what he was talking about, but he said..." she trailed off, motioning for Jenna to continue.

"It was a construct created by what you call the Corporation," Jenna answered, "a gigantic many-leveled machine run by abducted children."

Jenna concentrated, sending an image to Iyana.

In Iyana's mind, a picture begins to form. The song of the Little Doctors and the ringing of the bells suspended from the sidewalls of the pavilion fade, to be replaced by other, less pleasant sounds, sounds such as must issue from the deepest pits of nightmare. She hears an eternal low humming and the faint clash of weird machinery, what might be screams and moans, ominous creaking sounds that might be belts and chains, the idiot whistle of a constant wind, a faint, houndly barking that is undoubtedly the abbalah's devil dog, the sardonic caw of a crow.

She is seeing End-World; Conger Road, which winds through it to Din-tah. The blasted, burning landscape surrounding Conger Road is like hell, and surely An-tak, the Big Combination, is hell itself. A snake goes writhing across the overgrown gravel. It is the size of a python, with ruby eyes and fangs that prop its mouth open in a perpetual snarl. Hills rise and fall beneath the sullen gray sky. A few birds of enormous size wheel lazily. A shaggy, slump-shouldered creature staggers down a narrow defile and is gone from sight. The thud and pound of machinery grows in volume, shaking the earth. The crump of pile drivers; the clash of ancient gears; the squall of cogs.

"That's the Crimson King's power plant," Iyana thinks, "the Big Combination. A million children have died on its belts, and a trillion more to come, for all I know. There are machines. Red machines and black machines, all lost in smoke. There are great belts and children without number upon them. They trudge and trudge, turning the belts that turn the machines. Down in the foxholes. Down in the ratholes where the sun never shines. Down in the great caverns where the furnace-lands lie. They trudge until their feet bleed, there are whips in hell and chains in Sheol."

The sounds of clashing machinery grow in volume till Iyana's ears feel as if they will shatter. Over the sounds of machinery, she can also hear screams and sobs and harsh yells and what can only be the whistling crack of whips. Then, she sees the Big Combination itself, a great crisscrossing confusion of metal rising into the clouds from a smoking pit about half a mile east. It looks like a madman's conception of a skyscraper, a Rube Goldberg collection of chutes and cables and belts and platforms, everything run by the marching, staggering children who roll the belts and pull the great levers. Red-tinged smoke rises from it in stinking fumes, and everywhere there are imprisoned children, Some from other worlds, perhaps worlds adjacent to this one, but many from the Earth Iyana's previous human incarnation had come from. Kids whose faces appeared for a while on milk cartons and then disappeared forever. Kept a little longer in the hearts of their parents, of course, but eventually growing dusty even there, turning from vivid memories into old photographs. Kids presumed dead, buried somewhere in shallow graves by perverts who had used them and then discarded them. Instead, they were here. Some of them, anyway. Many of them. Struggling to yank the levers and turn the wheels and move the belts while the yellow-eyed, green-skinned overseers cracked their whips, and this is their prison, an ugly complication of struts and belts and girders and smoking chimneys. The Big Combination disappears up into the clouds and down into the dead ground. How far in each direction? A mile? Two? Are there children above the clouds, shivering in oxygen masks as they trudge the treadmills and yank the levers and turn the cranks? Children below who bake in the heat of underground fires? Down there in the foxholes and the ratholes where the sun never shines? As she looks at this physical manifestation of Hell, Iyana hears a hideous parody of a voice, one that contains no sanity, only a mad joy, one that appears to be attempting a German accent with equipment that was never made to produce anything remotely resembling human speech.

"Dey are gowering in their bloody holes and govering their eyes, dey are whimbering in derror, my boor loss babbies. No, no, dat won't help, will it? Ah, zee de engynes, yezz, oh dose beeyoodiful beeyoodiful engynes, whad a zight, the beeyoodiful engynes againzt de vire, how they churrn, how dey churrn and burrn. I zee a hole, yez yez, dere idd iz, oho, zo brighd around de etches, zo folded back... Fogzes down fogzhulls, radz in radhulls, hyenaz over embdy stomachs wail, oho, aha, dis iz mozt-mozt gladzome my frenz, more an more de liddle wunz drudge drudge drudge, oho, on bledding foodzies... Drudge drudge drudge, oho, de bledding foodzies..."

Iyana is reminded by this insane discourse of a rather humorous story by Edgar Allen Poe entitled "The angel Of the Odd," but she knows full well that the owner of the voice she can hear is no comic figure whose body consists of a wine barrel supported by two kegs, two water jugs for arms, a canteen for a head, and a funnel that serves as a mouth. This being is...

"But The Big Combination was destroyed by one of the intended breakers," Jenna continued, drawing Iyana from her sight of the anti room of hell, "Then there is the threat that still exists. The breakers in Tower Keystone, as Mark, Alison and Stephen call it. They are imprisoned in Din-Tah, the Furnace Lands. They are set to break. They never age, never die. Every waking moment is torment to them. Foxes in foxholes. Rats in ratholes. They must break, for breaking is all they can do."

At this point, Mark joined the conversation.

"We would have rescued them if it hadn't been for the fact that the tower had other ideas," he said.

"You couldn't have succeeded," Jenna said, "nor could you have bested the Abbalah with your guns alone. He has withstood far worse. Even his physical being is powerful enough to survive almost anything. It is said that, in the long ago, at the end of the great battle that emptied the castle of Arthur Eld and the town of Feddic, he was stripped of his body by Maerlyn, who meant to destroy him utterly. And although his essence fled from All-World, it returned to its place of origin, retook its original form and returned, in time, to the borderlands between Mid-World and End-World, there founding the Court of the Crimson King. He showed not his true form, going about as a man in red, whose very face appeared to be the color of freshly spilt blood. After a time, after the great fire engulfed All-World, he began to be spied in two places at once, but at the end of what the Mirianas call the last great discord, he was spied approaching the Dark Tower, which he attempted to enter. His attempt failed, for the tower was pent shut against him, then came the final battle, during which his physical being was imprisoned within the tower. Since that time, rumors have persisted of his duel nature and his desire to bring down the tower and end all existence, for only by so doing can his physical being be freed to rejoin what could not be imprisoned."

"We saw a man possessed by something back on Earth," Mark said, "Ashlee called him Allen."

"I know what was in him," Iyana said, "I fought it and lost. It was Alundar."

"He has many names," Jenna said, "the Abbalah is only one of them. Los is another."

"I didn't know the Mirianas knew about the Crimson King," Mark said with some surprise, "I mean, I'm not shocked that Yuon knew about him, but I didn't know his existence was common knowledge."

"It should be," Iyana said, "he was originally a Miriana. Although he was only in first stage when he began his attempts, first to take Miria, then the wider universe, he became infamous."

"Oh fine," Mark said, "not only do Alison and I find out that the world we came from was destined to be over run by zombies eight years after we left it, but now there's the little matter of the Crimson King coming from here. Can this business get any more complicated?"

"As you saw the Abbalah on Earth," Jenna said, "the infestation of the living dead is a part of his plan."

"How the fuck does infesting a world with zombies help the Crimson King break the beams?" Mark asked, "that makes no sense what so ever."

"Any great disaster that brings about the end of a world aids in the breaking," Jenna replied, "the fall of Gilead caused one of the beams to break, creating the Blasted Lands. The chaos on Earth has most likely weakened one of the remaining three enough to cause it to snap."

"Wonderful," Mark said, "so I guess this means that the Corporation is hand in glove with Los, or Alundar or whatever the fuck his real name is. As if we needed any more problems, but I'm not surprised. Everything we've encountered recently seems to have been connected with him in one way or another."

"There is more to his plan than just causing Earth to move on," Jenna said, "you must also consider Alex and Marie."

"What about them," Mark asked, "if you're about to tell me they'd make great breakers, I already know. That particular idea came to me while we were trying to make sure Alex didn't die of radiation sickness thanks to those spikes he got backed into."

"I was about to say that," Jenna admitted, "and then there is this other. This Janes Kulanek. Alison's reaction to her presence tells me that she is no more human than Allen was."

"I don't think Big Red possessed her too," Mark said, "after all, according to what we heard about her from Ashlee she was going around the planet fucking things up at the same time as Allen was carrying him around inside what passed for his head. Furthermore, Los, or Alundar, or whatever you want to call him is crazier than a shithouse mouse. Kulanek isn't insane. A child killing cunt, but not insane."

"No," Jenna said, "Los wasn't in her. There is another, Los's concubine."

"He had one of those?" Mark asked, "I thought he was too busy trying to end the universes to worry about getting his rocks off."

"I know not what their true relationship is," Jenna said, "No one does. But Zephoris has been allied with him since before his exile from Miria."

"And how much do you know about this business?" Mark asked.

"Much," Jenna replied.

"Maybe you'd better tell me what you know," Mark said, "it may be information we need."

"I will tell you what I can," Jenna said, "Alundar has many names, Gulyan being the foremost among them. He either gave this name to himself or it was always his, because no world gave it to him, and it is the only name he has power over. He is called Los, or by some he is called Ulikaan, Yan Andin,  
Nan Tikkirath, Tarikko, and many other names.

He has a companion who at times is called his wife or his concubine, but their true  
relationship mayhap will never be known. The name she is known most by is Nuleiana, followed by Ayanim, and by the Star-People she is called Zephoris. She, unlike Alundar, either did not style herself a name or kept hers secret, though the name Zephoris is  
the one she has the most power over. She, unlike Alundar, is not  
trapped, only banished eternally from Miria with the mark of disgrace indelibly etched on her palm, a mark she has turned to mean evil and be feared, because it stands for the antithesis of what the Mirianas stand for.

They were both Mirianas. Once there were four Nightlings, of whom Zephoris was the oldest and most powerful. Alundar was the son of Andelin, her only heir, and at his betrayal and her crowning as Mirian Queen; she cast a veil on his memory so all on Miria would forget his name, including herself.

Alundar may have always been evil, for it is said that his soul traveled into the Miriana body at its birth six million years ago, and that the regions of his soul he could not control still worked from afar as a dark entity, casting a shadow even then over the eleven known universes and their many coexisting "layers" or dimensions. He was the last of four Magic Masters, Tiannen, Yuon, and Alai were the others, and he fell to the dark.

Alai, with the aid of Miria's spirit-crystal Corunan, imprisoned him at the Discord's end six thousand years ago in the Place of No Name, or the Place of All Names, the Center of Time, the Tower of the Rising Moon as it was called by the Mirianas, the Dark Tower as it was called by the line of the Eld. It is the opposite of Miria's Tower of the Rising Sun, the Lillin Limarin Eniri, or Lillin Ilianin, Tower of Beginning, which holds all future possibilities within it. The place in which he was imprisoned was the Lillin Andin, Tower of All End, or Lillin Limarin Inila, the translation of Tower of the  
Rising Moon. It is, as you know, located in the sixth universe, the Middle Worlds or Central Dimension as are the more common history-book names of it on Miria.

I said earlier that there are many worlds, and that holds true of universes and dimensions as well. In all, there are eleven, as I hinted before. The first and oldest universe is that in which Miria's tower is, and it is rumored that in the little-known eleventh dimension is a fortress called Lillin Milarin Alene, Tower of Ending Time. Though "andin" is usually the word for ending, "milarin" is that of setting, like a setting sun or setting moon, and when used in this instance it means an absolute end, the merging point of all dark and all ending. It is said to be a fortress of pure black granite, polished glass-smooth and set with ancient silver runes or dark gems, and held by a spider web of an unknown and indestructible black metal is the black Eye of the Tower, as there is an Eye of the other Towers, and its runes are written in the Linari Milarin, the Antispeech, devised when Inela, the most powerful of Alai Daughter of the One's siblings went over to the Dark and wrote a speech of absolutes, of night and all dark things, ancient and rich with dark power. It is said that this tower provides entry to only one place, the Ulikkar or Todash darkness and the X-ed worlds, those worlds that have died or been banished in previous Discords. Alundar not only seeks to free his physical being but also seeks control of that tower, for in Ulikkar-Todash, the antithesis of the "ordered chaos" of ulimma, the between-dimension of light through which teleportation is possible, there is a great dark entity that, if he breaks loose, will rule all with the complete and unbreakable force of his dark being. That being has many names, among them AZAGTHOTH, as he was known by an ancient race on Earth who feared him, a race known as the Chaldeans, but Azathoth is the one he is most known by. His true form is no form; his true essence is no essence. He is the exact opposite of life and light, the soul of Ulikkar, the heart of ultimate darkness and evil. He is lord of those the Chaldeans knew as the Ancient Ones, for they, long ago, opened a gate to Ulikkar and were nearly destroyed. One was able to seal the gate once again, but he died a madman soon after. Another wrote of all he had learned, but attempted to utilize that which was forbidden and likewise died in madness."

"And how exactly do you know all this?" Mark asked, "to the best of my knowledge, you were never on earth."

"Yuon told me," Jenna said, a smile crossing her ageless face at the mention of Yuon's name.

"You said one wrote of everything he learned," Iyana said, "who was he and where did his writings finish up?"

"He became known in after ages as the Mad Arab," Jenna replied, "and his writings were located and translated, being given the title of Necronomicon."

"Necronomicon!" Mark exclaimed, "you mean...?"

Before Jenna could answer, Iyana spoke in a low voice, as if lost in memory.

"Open the Gate, lest I cause the Dead to rise and devour the Living. Open the Gate, lest I give the Dead power over the Living. Open the Gate, lest I make the Dead to outnumber the Living."

"What the hell...?" Mark began.

"Something Ashlee said just after we left Anchorage," Iyana explained, "We'd just seen nearly eighty people torn apart by zombies and..."

"She just came out with that at random?" Mark asked."

She did," Iyana replied, "when we asked her what she was talking about, she said it was something she'd read once. Now I know why it seemed so damn familiar. Janes Kulanek had a copy of the book. She didn't know I'd seen it, but..."

"That doesn't explain where Ashlee could have gotten hold of a copy," said Mark, "to the best of my knowledge, there were only a few copies in existence by 2008, and as for 2016..."

"More than likely, she saw references to the work in other writings," Yuon said, making her way through the entrance flap of the pavilion and approaching Jenna. In her hand was a cup filled with a golden liquid that seemed, to Mark, to be glowing with its own light.

"What's that?" Mark asked, "I didn't think Jenna could take anything but blood."

"It is distilled life essence," Yuon replied, "it can safely be taken by her, and it has other properties as well."

"What other properties," Mark inquired.

"The extention of the natural span of one's life," Yuon replied, "and, in some cases, the healing of small injuries. As Jenna is the closest thing to an immortal being I have ever encountered, its ability to extend life and heal injuries is meaningless, but as for its nutritive value..."

As Yuon was handing the cup to Jenna, Iyana sank into a nightmare ravaged sleep from which she did not truly awaken for months. In her dreams she was once again human, once again on Earth and in the clutches of the Corporation. However, there was something wrong. The room in which she had actually been held had had no television, but this one did. The set was turned on and from it came a steady stream of news, none of which had to do with the X Virus. News of death after death poured from the television set without interruption. The list was like a rogue's gallery of the famous, the well known, the ones whose existence had made some sort of difference, either positive or negative, to the universe.

"John Fitzgerald Kennedy died this afternoon at Parkland Memorial Hospital. America's last gunslinger is dead. O Discordia! Diem and Nhu are dead. Now do slip the dogs of war, the tale of woe begins; from here the way to Jericho Hill is paved with blood and sin. Ah, Discordia! Charyou tree! Come, reap! Robert Kennedy is dead, Ronald Reagan is dead, astronaut Alan Shepard is dead, Lyndon Johnson is dead, Richard Nixon is dead, Elvis Presley is dead, Buddy Holly is dead, the Big Bopper is dead, Amy Lee is dead, Alice Cooper is dead, Ozzy Osborne is dead, Bill Clinton is dead, George H.W. Bush is dead, Sid Barrot is dead, George W. Bush is dead, Rock Hudson is dead, Roland of Gilead is dead, Eddie of New York is dead, Susannah of New York is dead, Jake of New York is dead, Oy of mid-World is dead, Mark Rimer is dead, Alison Hartley is dead, Stephen Deschain is dead, Marie Andris is dead, Cianan is dead, Niamh is dead, James Franklin is dead, Nightstalker is dead, Jenna is dead, Yuon is dead, The world is dead, the _worlds.,_ The Tower is falling, a trillion universes are merging, and all is Discordia, all is ruin, all is ended."

Iyana rose from the bed and approached the door to the room. For a moment, she wondered if the door would be locked, but one turn of the doorknob told her that it wasn't. Uncertainly, Iyana stepped into the corridor outside her familiar but oddly changed room.

The lights in the corridor were flickering uneasily, as if there had been an interruption in power and the facility was currently receiving its energy from a generator that only had a short time left to continue existing as a functional piece of equipment. The grey tiled floor was streaked with blood which occasionally bore dragging shoeprints, as if people had shuffled through it. There were some clearer impressions, where other people had obviously walked or run through the now drying gore. Something appeared to have happened and fairly recently. The blood was cold and congealing, but not yet dry.

Iyana walked carefully along the corridor, keeping an eye out for any possible threats. Her Corporation training had automatically taken over and all emotion was now at arm's length, and her senses were cranked up to the max. She could hear the usually unnoticeable sound of a fly in one of the ventilation ducts, the even fainter sound of the very Earth in its orbit and rotation, and closer, more immediate, the sound of movement.

She could detect no life, only the semi-mindless half-life of the infected. The facility was deserted, leaving only the walking dead to inhabit its once bustling corridors and rooms.

As Iyana approached a turning in the corridor, she noticed that she was no longer alone. Two of the dead stood shakily in a doorway to her left. Iyana turned in that direction, dropping into a crouch.

The zombies went for her, shambling like an inexorable slow-motion nightmare. One wore the remnants of a corporation uniform, and it and the creature's shoes were smeared with blood.

Iyana's speed was blinding as she kicked the uniformed zombie in the face, snapping its neck with the popping sound of dried sticks. The other, a decaying woman in the remains of a blue dress, attacked from the right. Iyana spun, dropped to her knees, and met the attack by sweeping the zombie's legs out from under it. The corpse scrabbled on the floor for a moment and rose shakily to its feet. Iyana met its second attack with equal speed and precision. This time she leapt at the thing and both feet connected with its skull pulping it instantly. Rotting brain tissue infested with small white worms flew and splattered on the floor and walls of the corridor.

Iyana moved back into the corridor and continued moving toward an unknown and undetermined destination. She passed junction after junction in her seemingly endless journey. Her course led her steadily down through the floors of the seemingly endless building. As she went, she noticed that there were signs posted at regular intervals on the walls. "X Virus Research," said one. "Weapons locker," said another. "Interdimensional portal," said a third. "Todash," read a fourth.

"What the fuck is this all about?" Iyana thought quizzically. She knew very well that there had never existed signs such as these in the corporation building that she remembered.

As she continued on her way, lines of dark poetry came to her mind, dredged up from her memory.

"Through the ghoul-guarded gateways of slumber, Past the wan-mooned abysses of night, I have lived o'er my lives without number, I have sounded all things with my sight; And I struggle and shriek ere the daybreak, being driven to madness with fright. I have whirled with the earth at the dawning, When the sky was a vaporous flame."

After the passage of several hours and additional encounters with small and sometimes not so small groups of the undead, Iyana at last saw a door that was unlike the others she had passed along the corridor. This one was a double-paneled glass door which led to the outside. There were, however, no lights burning outside, although it was definitely night.

In the shadows moved a small army of the walking dead just waiting for an unwary venturer into that impenetrable blackness. Among them, Iyana saw Ashlee, Niamh shambling beside her, a severed human arm clutched in her small hands. To their right stood the gunslinger Iyana had seen in Jenna's pavilion, his eyes rotted out of his skull, his face an unrecognizable mass of shredded tissue. Although the gunslinger was now one of the undead, she recognized him as she had on Miria. In the summer of 2008, she and Simon, Cianan to come, had met him and his girlfriend in a small Maine town in which they had battled something that had taken the shape of a dog and they had all nearly been killed by it. To the left of the Mark Rimer zombie crouched what could only have been an undead Miriana, its wings in tatters, its golden skin now grey-black and crawling with vermin.

Trembling, Iyana drew back from the door, only to collide with a man who had been standing quietly behind her in the flickering shadows. The man wore a black robe and run-down cowboy boots and his face seemed alight with sadistic glee. He grinned evilly at her, revealing the teeth of a cannibal.

"Hello Iyana," the Man In Black said with mock cheer, "I've been waiting for you."

Iyana spun round and aimed a punch at the Man In Black's face. He moved like lightning, so fast that even a gunslinger couldn't have tracked the movement. The punch, intended for the Man In Black's face encountered nothing but empty air.

"Uh uh," the Man In Black admonished with a slight titter which chilled Iyana's blood, "none of that, now. We've got places to go and things to discuss, Such as towers, and beams and weather or not Amy Lee was actually a better singer than Leslie Gorr."

Iyana drew back, dropping into a defensive stance. The Man In Black reached for her and his hands settled on her shoulders. His touch froze Iyana where she crouched. It was cold as the grave, cold as the vast uncharted void of intergalactic space. Iyana felt herself going numb, all life leaving her, her soul departing her body. Like a sweater that had seen better days, Iyana was slowly unraveling. There would be no awakening on Miria for her this time. This time there would only be death, darkness, discordia. Charyou tree. A discordant jangle of Todash chimes accompanied the growing sensation of notness. She attempted to remain conscious but it was no use. Consciousness was fading, memory and identity trickling away like sugar down a drain. Iyana's weak cry fell only on the deaf chiming darkness. For the first time in a long time, Iyana could not fight.

As the sensation of soul extraction increased, Iyana saw an infinite multiplicity of planets Earth, some of which had ended in various ways. She saw four which had been depopulated by a man-made version of the Flue, another on which the machines of man had overthrown their human masters, another on which a branch of the Corporation had accidentally torn a hole through Interdimensional space and let in an almost endless variety of monsters, another on which the entire population had been rendered senile, one on which an enormous space-born organism known as Star Wormwood caused a revolt of the dead, and another on which cell phones had been used to transmit a Corporation-made phenomenon known as the Pulse that rendered all those affected by it into super-psychic killing machines. All seemed to be ending around her, all Earths, all universes, the macroverse itself. She felt the death around her and oblivion calling to her in the Todash chimes, and heard, accompanying them, a voice, prophesying doom for all.

"And all shall be Discordia,

and all shall fade and die,

and inward do the shadows creep across the land and sky.

And to the great worlds they are sent,

to Gallifrey to darken its light,

to Miria to choke its life,

to Anorai to imprison it in night.

And all shall be Discordia,

and all shall fade and die,

and inward do the shadows creep across the land and sky."

Jenna's body suddenly stiffened. The song of the little Doctors suddenly rose into a scream of fury. They appeared in hoards from everywhere and began madly ascending the legs of the bed over which Iyana was suspended. They covered her so thickly that only her first-stage Miriana form could be seen.

"What the blue-bellied Christ is going on!" Mark cried.

"Iyana's soul is under attack!" Jenna said, her voice rising in fury, "something means to kill her!"

She shook her head violently as she had when the royal guards had attempted to enter the pavilion without her leave. But this time there was a different note to the Dark Bells. They were calling the Little Doctors to battle of a different kind. This battle would be waged in Iyana's own endangered soul.

"Gods help her," Mark thought, "and if she dies, gods help us all!"

From his sell at the top of the dark tower, the Crimson King looked from Can'-Ka No Rey into the vast unplumbed abysses of the Todash darkness. He saw from afar Iyana's danger, the slow extraction of her soul. A laugh issued from him. Soon the Miriana would be dead and the vampire who had dared to defy his will would be crushed. Her calling as a healer would fail and her mind and spirit would crumble. Discordia would reign, the tower would topple and he would be free, free to rejoin the rest of himself.

"Soon," he thought, "soon the end will come. Can-tah! Can-tak! Can-tah Abbalah!"

The Little Doctors continued to swarm over Iyana, their scream rising in fury. Jenna seemed to have caught their infectious rage at the attack that was taking place, an attack she could neither observe nor combat. Her usually calm demeanor was gone and in its place there was a fury that chilled Mark's blood.

"What the fuck's going on here?" he thought as he watched Jenna's futile efforts to fight off whatever it was that was attacking Iyana's very soul, "whatever it is, I'll wager it has something to do with either Big Red or that other one Jenna was telling me about."

To Jenna's left stood Yuon, her hands making a series of complicated gestures. Golden light spilled from her fingers and covered the shape beneath the ever-growing company of Little Doctors, but the energy seemed to be deflected as soon as it touched Iyana.

"Can anyone fucking do something?" Mark said, not realizing he had spoken aloud, "can anyone...?"

At the next moment, Mark felt a powerful wave of energy rush past him, nearly knocking him from his feet and sending him flying up the aisle between two rows of beds.

"What the...?" he thought, but then knew. Alex, although asleep, had become aware of the situation and had decided, probably without knowing it, to contribute what he could to the battle, all be it mentally, or psychically or maybe even spiritually.

Iyana suddenly felt a decrease in the force pulling her from her body. The Todash chimes faded as did the numbing cold and the visions of dead worlds and she found herself, not in the zombie infested Corporation facility, but in a house she had once known very well indeed. It had been her home during her teen-age years, at least until she had turned seventeen, just after the plane crash Simon had been involved in, a crash that had been brought about by Corporation agents.

As she looked about, utilizing the telepathic substitute for sight the X Virus had given her, she noticed that nothing was moving in the area of the house in which she stood. She turned and made her way toward the stairs and up to the second floor. She could sense something up there and she wanted to know what it was. It was nothing like a life form, but she sensed movement, although she couldn't sense any sign of the infection in any of its forms.

"Of course not," she thought, "I'm the only thing here that carries the X Virus. If this is 2011 and I'm where I think I am..."

Her thought was cut off as she noticed something at the end of the corridor she was traversing. It appeared to be a cloud of greenish gas or very fine liquid. It drifted near the floor, reaching a height of no more than eight or nine inches. At first it simply drifted in meaningless patterns that seemed to be almost wave-like and then it seemed to notice her and began drifting forward toward her.

Iyana turned and fled back the way she had come. There was no way to fight this for it had no substance, at least not one she could harm in any way. it would have been like attempting to fight smoke or steam. She reached the door to what had been her sister's room and threw it open.

On the bed within lay her sister, her skin pitted and grey, her eyes nothing more than milky white balls of congealed jelly. Something had been at her and Iyana knew what that something had been.

She turned and exited the room, knowing that there was nothing she could do for her sister, who had passed beyond any help even Jenna could have provided.

She retraced her steps along the corridor and stopped at another doorway. This one led to her Mother's room. As she entered, she noticed that the room was not empty. On the bed lay her mother in the same condition as her sister had been; only not so far advanced. As Iyana watched, her Mother's cracked lips opened as if she intended to speak and a stream of thick brownish liquid vomited from within her obviously dead body.

The substance splattered the floor and walls, some even reaching the ceiling, and then it began to ooze toward Iyana.

She turned and ran for the stairs, noticing as she did that a keyboard she had owned until it had given up the ghost in 2012 was floating along the corridor, supported by the gas-like substance that had poisoned two members of her family. As she watched, the keyboard activated itself and Moonlight Sonata began issuing from its speakers. At the same time, the keyboard began revolving slowly.

As Iyana descended to the first floor, she noticed that there was now a smell in the house, a chemical smell unlike anything she had ever encountered. She reached the kitchen and was confronted by the open door to the freezer. Under normal circumstances, this wouldn't have even drawn her notice, but the freezer door now appeared to open on a limitless gulf of emptiness. Cold poured from it and surrounded her. The force of gravity seemed to double and then triple as if the freezer itself wished to draw her into the seemingly endless spaces within.

With great difficulty, Iyana turned from the freezer and ran from the kitchen. Behind her, she heard the freezer door slam shut.

She entered the living room and saw her Father, his face grey and shriveled, his dead eyes staring. She reached to touch him, guided by an impulse she couldn't control, and he broke apart inside his clothes, showering her with grey powder.

At that moment, a huge form appeared beside her. It looked to be an enormous human, whose face appeared to have been carved from grey stone. Its eyes blazed with what appeared to be the fires of Hell itself, but she sensed no evil intent in it. She did, however, sense the X Virus.

Without saying a word, the huge creature bent and scooped Iyana up under one arm and carried her out of the house.

Outside there was no movement except the heavy tread of the creature and the mindless whisper of the wind. A cold light bathed the frozen landscape in which Iyana and her as yet unnamed rescuer found themselves. The surrounding houses, like the one from which Iyana had been carried were either empty or filled with the dead. Cars sat in a few driveways and in the yard of one house sat an abandoned sled, as if the owner of that particular house would be coming out at any time to enjoy a little winter sport. Daubed in red paint across the front of the house opposite the one Iyana had been in was the cryptic sentence "Yog-Sothoth rules." On another house was the message "All Hale the Crimson King." On a third was the warning "The Dark Lady reigns supreme." A fourth bore the message "Put me to sleep, evil angel." From far away came the unmistakable howl of a wolf.

"There were never any wolves around here," Iyana thought, and then she knew, actually knew that she was dreaming. She was still in Jenna's pavilion, still a Miriana, but she also knew that if she died in this dream she would die on Miria too.

As Iyana's rescuer began to move through the deserted side yard, additional howls came from all directions. They appeared to be at the exact center of a circle of predators, all of which had designs on ending their lives. The being set Iyana on her feet and turned first one way, then another, attempting to ascertain from which direction would come the most immediate danger.

From Iyana's left came a low growl that reminded her of the dog thing she and Simon had defeated in Castle Rock, but this was no dog or wolf any human being had ever encountered. Its coat was a blackish-grey, its overall size was greater than either a grey wolf or an Alaskan timber wolf, and its jaws appeared to be far more powerful and capable of doing a great deal of damage to anything it got its teeth into. Iyana recognized it in spite of its having no business existing in the first place. It and its kind had once roamed North America until it had been rendered extinct by either an ice age or some other similar natural disaster. It was a dire wolf.

The creature who had rescued Iyana turned in the dire wolf's direction and let loose a bolt of psychic energy. The dire wolf's head exploded, showering bone fragments and gobbets of brain tissue over the snow-covered ground, but other shapes were now appearing. Some were grey wolves, others were timber wolves, still others were things that hadn't existed on earth for millions of years. Iyana saw something that looked like a cross between a wolf and an African wild dog, its jaws open, its tongue lolling out to an incredible length.

After a moment during which the entire scene seemed frozen, the pack of predatory beasts charged Iyana and her rescuer.

Alex, although asleep, was once again in a battle situation and was once again no longer really Alex. Nightstalker was now in control. He drew his guns and emptied them into the on-coming creatures. Blood splattered the snow as beast after beast fell before his fire.

After a relatively short battle, it was finished. The wolves and other assorted animals were all dead, but Alex/Nightstalker knew that the real battle was yet to begin. He sensed the power controlling this dream, a dream that had originally not been his, and he knew who that power belonged to.

"Janes!" Nightstalker thundered, "come out and face me!"

The scene before Nightstalker and Iyana dissolved, leaving them in what appeared to be empty space. Dark galaxies whirled about them; unformed horrors stared at them from the darkness.

More lines of verse, gleaned from the same poem by an author who had lived and died before Iyana had been born in her human form chimed in her head.

"I have seen the dark universe yawning, where the black planets roll without aim. Where they roll in their horror unheeded, without knowledge or luster or name."

From afar came the sound of Todash chimes, and from closer at hand came movement.

A form materialized before Nightstalker. It was Janes Kulanek, but not as she had appeared on Earth. Gone was the human form with its hawk-like features. In its place was the form of a Miriana with dark brown skin and dead black eyes, eyes that mirrored the Todash darkness itself. The Miriana's dark wings were half spread; its hands were extended toward Nightstalker and Iyana, showing a mark like an inverted spider web whose angles were somehow wrong in a way that caused Nightstalker to look away.

"You called me," she said in a voice that was decidedly not that of Janes Kulanek, "and here I am. So, you wish to take me on in my realm? You will lose and Iyana will die, as will you."

"Killing me will take some doing, bitch," Nightstalker said, his voice low and menacing, "you should know that. You made me what I am."

"And you don't think I know your weaknesses?" the Janes thing inquired, "you thought you were indestructible on Earth, so you didn't take in to account that direct exposure to radiation might be detrimental to you. You are too sure of yourself."

"As this is a dream," Nightstalker rumbled, "I could conceivably control the nature of things in it."

"Only one could do that," Janes countered, "and you are not him. He is gone forever."

"Even if I don't have control over this realm," Nightstalker countered, "I'll still do my best to kill you."

"You kill me?" the dark Miriana spat, "I am eternal. I am without ending. I have existed from the dawn of time and I shall live beyond its end."

"Oh, will you?" Nightstalker inquired, and launched himself at the thing before him.

As the two bodies came together in combat, there was a silencing of the Todash chimes as if the very darkness were watching the contest. Nightstalker reached for and grasped the black wings of the creature before him and attempted to tare them from its body. Janes cried out in a combination of pain and fury and lashed out with her mind. The psychic bolt caught Nightstalker full in the face and blood flowed.

"You would kill me?" Janes spat, "say again how you would kill me, pitiful thing of flesh."

"You are flesh too," Nightstalker retorted and drew both guns. His shots tore into the dark Miriana and the blood that emerged was dead black. The thing before Nightstalker screamed, its voice echoing in the void, but it once again attempted to attack psychically, but this time Nightstalker was prepared. He deflected the energy, sending it back to its source.

The black eyes of the thing before him, the thing that had taken the name Janes Kulanek on Earth, exploded from their sockets and more black blood gouted forth.

"You are eternal?" jeered Nightstalker, "I don't think so, bitch."

Before he could attack again, however, Nightstalker noticed that the unformed watchers were closing in on him and Iyana. If they didn't escape from the realm of darkness in which they were imprisoned, they never would.

Mark, without realizing he was going to do it until it was done, suddenly stepped forward and took Iyana's right hand in his left. A huge amount of energy passed from him to her and he heard himself speaking in a combination of English, Mirian, although how he knew any words in Mirian was beyond him, and the High Speech, words that were not his own.

"Alai, ennel ar el aan," he said, "Alai, Daughter of the one, Alai, Mother of Iyana, who gave your life so all might live, who was named for the Daughter of the One, whose soul exists within Miria itself, I call upon your power! Your Daughter is threatened by the red and the Ulikkar! I, Mark, Son of John, gunslinger of Mid-World call upon you! Cam-a-cam-mal, Pria-toi, Gan delah! White over red! Aya mil lenn!"

At those words, the sense of impending doom lessoned, but did not completely abate. Yuon continued sending power to Iyana and now the energy seemed to be having some effect.

Jenna shook her head and at the sound of the Dark Bells, the Little Doctors clustered more thickly on Iyana's head, rendering it totally invisible. Their song was still a song of battle, but now it was also a song of impending victory.

To Mark's left, two human shapes appeared. One was a young woman with blond hair and blue eyes and the other was a young man. They moved to either side of Iyana's bed and Mark could feel their minds questing.

"Breakers," he thought, "we're simply stiff with them around here."

After a moment, the unknown couple drew away from the bed and vanished.

"Now what the deep-frozen fuck just happened?" Mark asked, not expecting an answer.

"We had help," Jenna answered.

"No shit," Mark said, "but I don't usually just know how to do magic, and who the hell were those two, and if you tell me that one of them was the Lone Ranger, I'll go outside and bang my head off one of Yuon's mistwood trees for a while."

"Why would you wish to perform such a foolish action?" Stephen asked.

"Because I'm about to go fucking loony!" Mark cried, "first we have dream attacks and then two people just pop out of nowhere like a large restaurant bill and put things right and then pop back into the nowhere they popped out of! Jesus bottle breaking Christ!"

"The white takes many forms," Stephen said.

"Oh for Christ's sake," Mark said, "I hate it when you go all deep and philosophical on me. You're worse than a REM song."

"Who is this REM?" Stephen asked, "is he learned like me?"

"Oh fucking Christ," groaned Mark, "this is what I get for asking a simple question around here. REM was a rock group from mine and Alison's world. A lot of their songs didn't make any sense to me. They sang about things like where a fucking poisonous snake was sleeping, eating kids' books and rocks from space, the world ending and them feeling good about it, weather or not someone named Monty met the ocean and could talk while some guy was getting hung, and someone cursing like a sailor on some stage or other."

"How much strong graf did they drink before they performed those songs?" Stephen inquired with genuine interest.

"None," Mark replied, "they just did songs like that."

"Then they were fools," said Steven emphatically.

Before any further conversation could continue, a slight breeze blew through the pavilion accompanied by the strong scent of roses. Jenna looked up and seemed both pleased and astonished. Mark and Steven also watched in fascinated disbelief as a woman appeared slowly in the center of the pavilion. Strong white light emanated from her body, her blonde hair shown like gold, and her face was soft with serene innocence.

"Mother," Jenna whispered softly, and the woman smiled at her. Then, without a sound, the woman glided toward Iyana's bed, the strands of silver bells ringing automatically at her passing.

Gently, the woman placed her small hand on Iyana's forehead. Her red silk gown rustled as her body moved, and the scent of her perfume was intoxicating. Mark felt awed simply to be in the presence of such a creature. He also felt horny, which wasn't a good thing as Alison couldn't help him now.

The being in the red dress paid neither Mark nor anyone else any attention for the moment however. Instead, she spoke in a voice that was clear and resonant with power.

"Still, Iyana. Be calm. Everything will be all right."

Then her voice rose to a loud call which shook the pavilion. "Dark Phoenix!" she cried out into the stillness. "A defiant creature of the outside darkness has stolen my child from me and I cannot journey there to bring her back. Bring her back for me and I swear that both the dark lady and her minions shall be yours to do with as you like and I shall not interfere!"

Suddenly, a stronger breeze blew through the pavilion, but this breeze did not smell of roses. It smelled of rape, of anger, of greed, lust, pain and power. It was the smell of all things dangerous and ugly, an indescribable odor that made Mark's head dance momentarily with mad visions. He would use Stephen's knife to slowly bleed the next Corporation agent he found. He would find Janes and eat out her throat; he would bathe himself in a spurt of arterial blood from... The visions and their accompanying ecstasy of rage and hate faded, and the scent of roses returned.

Mark glanced at Steven, meaning to ask him if he had experienced anything unusual as well, but Mark stopped short. Steven was staring transfixed at the woman in the red dress, frank desire stamped on every line of his face. His eyes traveled her body from its powerful legs to its flaring hips, to its ample breasts, and the gentle face beyond. His eyes were filled with lust and a strangely dark masculine power seemed to radiate from him. It seemed to be a weaker form of the thing that had just passed through the pavilion.

Alex and Iyana looked up suddenly as a piercing cry of rage and hate slashed the air around them. Suddenly, a great bird with powerful black wings and human face appeared beside them in the void. The unformed watchers tried to flee, but seemed trapped. As for Janes, she was weak and the great talons closed round her neck and began slowly to sink into her throat. There was no escape from this enemy for Janes. She had roused the wrath of a being older than time itself, a being known in some circles as the "Father of Vengeance." She attempted to free herself from the dark bird's grip, but it was no use. She then attempted to turn and fight, but she couldn't overpower the thing holding her.

"Vengeance is mine," said a cold voice.

Janes called on all the power at her command and once again attempted to break free of her attacker's grip, but once again she had no luck in doing so. She could feel the claws sinking deeper and deeper into her Miriana flesh, could feel blood beginning to flow, could feel her life within an ace of ending, but suddenly the claws were gone.

"Later," the cold voice said in her ear, "later, Janes Kulanek. Killing you now would be too easy and not very amusing. I prefer to let you live, at least for now. But remember this. I do not forget and I do not forgive. I will be avenged."

Alex suddenly felt himself being guided from the dreamscape and back to his body. At first he attempted to resist, but the call was too strong even for him, weather he be Nightstalker or Alex. He sensed not one but two minds, one of which was a breaker nearly on his and Marie's level and the other was the exact opposite of a breaker. He allowed himself to be led back. He had expended great amounts of energy in his attempt to fight Janes Kulanek and the two strangers seemed to know it.

For Iyana, the void began to fade, and she found herself in a warm quiet room, being rocked by a woman in a red dress, a woman whose gentle face she remembered from childhood, and not any of her various childhoods on other worlds, but her childhood on Miria. A time when Alai had still been alive, when Yuon had been younger, when Andelin had still been uncorrupted, when the last Emperor of Miria had still been on the throne, when everything had been new and strange and beautiful to her. As she felt the sensations of her childhood returning, she heard a voice, possibly her own, but who could tell?

"Feather, fly, please, now!"

Why was that so familiar?

In the pavilion, the woman in the red dress moved toward Alison's bed. She touched her gently first on the forehead and then on her back, whispering softly, words that no one heard.

Then she spoke directly to Yuon.

"Yuon, go to your sister Marie Vannay-Andris-Merril-Davis," she said, her voice now a gentle command that only Yuon and Mark heard. "She has suffered a great loss and without help she will not recover, and she must recover in order to help her people escape the coming disaster that faces that world, a disaster that in this when has already happened, but for her, in her when, it is yet to come. Also, you can rest as you help her grieve, but when your rest is achieved, you must bring from Earth the rose of existence. It is needed here, and if it remains where it currently grows, it will be destroyed in the coming chaos."

"I'll go to her at once, Chezarina," Yuon replied politely, bowing slightly, "and the rose will be brought here."

"Good," the woman, Chezarina apparently, replied.

Then, Chezarina went over to Steven and threw herself into his arms, pressing her body against his, moving slowly against him. Steven grabbed her, his face twisting into a possessive snarl that almost seemed to change him entirely from what he seemed to be most of the time. His hands roamed Chezarina without consideration either of her, or the others watching, they simply touched what they wished to touch.

Suddenly, Chezarina kissed Steven gently first on the cheek and then on the lips.

"We will meet again my gunslinger," she whispered. "but now alas is not the time." Then, without warning, she disappeared, leaving behind only the scent of roses and a curious mark in the shape of an open red rose on Steven's cheek.

"Can someone tell me what's going on around here?" Mark asked, looking about as lost as it was possible for a human being to look, "who the hell was that and why, Jenna, did you call her Mother? From what Roland told us, your Mother died shortly after Gilead fell."

"She is the Mother of all," Jenna replied, "she is Chezarina, Daughter of the rose, known in some circles as she who loves. She is the mother of creation in this multiverse, the pure one, the embodiment of all sensuality, of all light, she who holds great power, but chooses not to hold it. She is the slave-queen of my kin, she who at once rules and is ruled."

"Did I ever tell anyone that I hate riddles?" Mark inquired.

"Many times on our rode to the tower," Stephen answered.

"And what was that all about with you, Stephen?" Mark asked, "you're not expecting me to believe that you've just fallen in love, although I don't see how you couldn't have."

"I have," Stephen said unashamedly.

"Wow," Mark said, "when you do things, you don't do them half-assed. You just fell in love with a goddess! What do you do for an encore, find the fountain of youth? Turn tin into gold? Part Yuon's pool? Call down fire from Heaven? Make Andelin disappear, possibly?"

"Look you at his cheek," Jenna said, "she has clamed him. From this moment on he is hers and if he should betray her with any other woman..."

"I get the idea," Mark said, "there would be hell to pay."

As Mark released his grip on Iyana's hand and rose to his feet, Jenna looked at him.

"Where are you going?" she asked.

"I just thought I'd bring some flowers in here," Mark answered, "I figured the place needed some prettying up. I noticed all the different kinds of flowers in Yuon's gardens yesterday and I thought Maybe Yuon wouldn't mind if I took some."

After Mark left, Jenna busied herself around the pavilion. With Stephen's help, she gently removed the rehtaef pads from beneath Marie. She then once again checked on Alison, who appeared to be sleeping peacefully.

"Something is different about her," Jenna thought, and after consulting telepathically with the Little Doctors on Alison, discovered what it was. The deformity that had been developing in her was gone. Now all that was required was time for her wings to grow. They were still not showing, but now when they did they would be perfect. Jenna wondered for a moment what they would look like, if they would look like Yuon's wings, the wings of the one who had been a Mother to her, who had given her new life and a new chance.

She then moved to Alex and looked down at him.

"You have fought a great battle, walker in shadows," she said, "rest now and regain your strength."

Mark returned to the pavilion nearly an hour later, carrying a huge arm full of feathery white flowers.

"What exactly are those?" Stephen asked.

'I didn't know what else to bring back," Mark answered, "so I just brought back a load of these boa-lily thingies."

"What is a boa-lily?" Stephen asked.

"I don't know," Mark said, "I didn't study Mirian botany, so as far as I'm concerned it's a fucking boa-lily."

"No it's not," Iyana said, her mind mostly in the recent past, "it's a fucking fire lizard."

"No it isn't," Ashlee said in her sleep.

"What the fuck's all this shit about fire lizards?" Mark asked, "I didn't bring any fire or any lizards in here. What's someone going to want next? Oh, I know. Someone's probably going to come in here next and ask me to bring in some birds. I could just see it, me standing in the middle of Yuon's gardens like an asshole saying here, birdy birdy birdy. Then they'll be carting me off to the Mirian equivalent of the nut house."

"Nobody even mentioned birds," Stephen said.

"Well, give them a chance," Mark responded, "so far we've got people who come popping in and out of places like they do that sort of thing all the time and then go have a good dinner afterwards, then we've got Iyana, who thinks I brought something called a fire lizard in here. I wonder where she got that, anyway. The only thing I saw that was even related to fire were those dragon fire plants I spotted growing in an out of the way corner."

"What are these dragon fire plants?" Stephen asked.

"You expect me to know that?" Mark inquired in disbelief, "I don't know what those are either. All I know is that they're big red flowers on long green stems and they spit what looks like radioactive fire at you if you get too close!"

"It's fortunate for you that you did not bring any of those back here," Stephen said.

"Well, I agree," Mark said, "I didn't have a death wish today."

"Do you ever?" Stephen asked.

"Oh, you're hopeless!" Mark cried and began arranging the flowers in a circle around Iyana's bed. After he had place twelve flowers, which took root as soon as Mark set them down, he moved to Alison's bed and placed an equal number of flowers around it. He then moved to Alex's bed and performed the same action, after which, he repeated the procedure again, placing twelve more around Marie's. This done, he noticed that he still had twelve more. These he placed in a circle in the aisle between the row of beds that contained Alex's and the next row over.

"Why twelve around each bed?" Stephen asked, "and why those extra twelve?"

"I don't know," Mark replied, "it just seemed right to have twelve boa-lilies around each bed, and as for those ones in the aisle, it was like something told me to do it."

"They have taken root," Stephen observed.

"I don't understand," Mark said, "just like I don't understand why I was able to pull them out of the ground roots and all like I did. All I did was touch them and they were in my hand."

"Ka," Stephen said, as if this explained everything.

"Kaka," Mark responded.

As the conversation between Mark and Stephen was beginning, Yuon exited the pavilion and stood by the pool. She looked for a moment at the great crystal and then began making a complex series of gestures, accompanying them with softly spoken words in the Mirian language. Space folded before her, time flowed in reverse, and she found herself standing beside a paved rode in the light of an early morning. The leaves on the trees that bordered the rode were still green, and Yuon knew, thanks to that, that she had come in time to warn Marie, who was, despite the differences between humans and Mirianas, her sister. The disaster unleashed by the Corporation had not begun till the ninth month of the year 2016, and she knew that if she had come during or immediately prior to the events Iyana had told her of, the leaves would have just begun turning.

Immediately in front of her stood a house, in the window of which burned an electric light. She reached out with her mind and sensed the presence she had been seeking. Marie Vannay-Andris-Merril-Davis, whom Yuon had known since the day in All-World when she had been given to Yuon by her Mother, who was unable to care for her.

Yuon approached the house, mounted the porch steps, having some difficulty, as the steps in question had never been built for Mirianas to ascend, and knocked softly on the door. She noticed, almost immediately after she had done this, that there was a sign painted on the door in large letters that said "Please do not knock, ring doorbell. Knocks will not be answered."

Yuon attempted to reach the button that rang the doorbell, but it was too high for her to reach, so she knocked again, suspecting that she would probably need to teleport directly into the house, earning a scolding from Marie in the process.

Inside the house, Christina Davis stood, holding her Mother, whose tears had just subsided. Christina had been crying too, but she had wanted to be there for her Mother, so she had said nothing of her own sense of loss. Her Mother had, after all, been there for her times without number, and she felt she owed her.

A quiet knock sounded at the front door, and after a moment, there came a second. Christina disengaged herself from her Mother's arms and went to the window that overlooked the front porch, and drew back in surprise at what she saw.

"Mom," she said, "there's a big yellow bird on our porch, knocking on the door."

Marie Vannay-Andris-Merril-Davis, wife of John Davis that was, last gunslinger but two of the line of Eld, moved to the door, suspecting the identity of the knocker, turned the knob, and admitted Yuon.

Marie noticed, almost immediately, that Yuon was in a state of near exhaustion.

"Yuon," she said, "come in."

As Marie led Yuon into the house, Christina asked, "what kind of bird is that, and how did it learn to knock on doors?"

"She's not a bird," Marie replied, "she's a Miriana."

"What's one of those?" Christina asked, she looks like a bird to me. She's got wings, she's got feathers."

"That doesn't mean she's a bird," Marie said, remembering a billy-bumbler she had had in her youth who had also thought Yuon to be a bird, and who had, for reasons known only to himself, wanted to keep her as a pet.

"So what's a Miriana?" Christina asked.

"Mirianas are beings from another world," Marie explained, "they are very wise, as they can live for hundreds of millions of years. This one is named Yuon. She was like a sister to me in Gilead, but when the final crash came she disappeared. I thought her to be dead."

"Not yet," Yuon said in English, "I think I still have at least fifty more years in me."

At this, Marie noticed for the first time how pale Yuon's golden skin had become since the last time she had seen her, and how the folds of her wings were becoming just the slightest bit transparent. During one particular conversation that had taken place in Gilead, uncounted years ago now, Yuon had told her how it was for Mirianas who were about to fade, the pallor of the skin, the transparency in the folds of the wings, the decrease of physical energy.

"You're dying, aren't you?" Marie asked.

"Not quite yet," Yuon replied.

"Don't give me that," Marie said, "I know it's true."

"Maybe," Yuon said, "but not yet. I still have more to do."

"So does everyone," Marie said sadly, "like John did."

Marie's tears came again, and Yuon moved, almost glided, forward to embrace her. She folded her wings about Marie and allowed her to weep for her husband, the second she had lost, and for all the other losses she had suffered.

"Ka is cruel," Yuon thought, "weather you call it destiny, fate, providence, or ka, it can sometimes be crueler than the most evil being in the macroverse."

Yuon spent nearly a week with Marie, resting, and aiding the healing process of both Mother and daughter. The rest did her good, but she still felt exhaustion just over the horizon. She couldn't stay here indefinitely, though. She knew, thanks to the calendar in the living room of the house that the release of the X-Virus was less than a month away. On the eighth day of her stay in Castle Rock, she decided that she had rested long enough, and that if anyone from Castle Rock was to be saved from the coming apocalypse, she had to act soon.

When Yuon entered the kitchen, Marie approached her.

"There's something you're not telling me, isn't there?" she asked.

"I haven't told you yet because you needed some time to heal before you were called upon to undertake a mission," Yuon answered.

"What mission?" Marie inquired.

"A disaster is coming to this world," Yuon answered, "a disaster unleashed by an organization known simply as the Corporation, a disaster that will span this world from one end to the other, destroying everything in its wake."

"The Corporation!" Marie cried in surprise.

"You know of it?" Yuon asked in equal surprise.

"John was a Corporation agent before he met me," Marie replied.

"And how do you know this?" Yuon asked, "usually their operatives don't tell their loved ones about their work."

"I found his journals after he died," Marie said, tears threatening behind her eyes, "he wrote it all down in them, how the Corporation first employed him for his computer programming skills and then as an assassin. He also was working on the development of something called X. He said in his journals that it was a new virus, an extremely powerful mutagen, whatever that is, and that it was extremely dangerous. He also wrote of how the Corporation had infected five couples and three individuals with this X, and were using them to create a super race, at least most of them. One couple, he infected himself, with a new version of X, one that would only activate when additional X was introduced into their bodies."

"You seem to think that is of some significance," Yuon said.

"It is," Marie responded, "I knew the ones he infected. They moved into town eight years ago and then disappeared. I think they walked out, the same way I and others walked in."

"Who were they?" Yuon asked.

"Their names were Mark Rimer and Alison Hartley," Marie replied.

"So that's why Alison didn't immediately become one of the walking dead when she was bitten," Yuon said.

"What are you talking about?" Marie asked.

"Within a month, the X-Virus will be accidentally, or not so accidentally released," Yuon answered, "with in a short time after its release, the world as you have known it will have ended. Your husband was right when he said in his journals that the X-Virus was dangerous. It will be the agent of this world's destruction."

"How?" Marie asked.

"It causes those infected with it to mutate, but that's only the beginning," Yuon said, "there's another aspect to X that's even worse."

"How could anything be worse?" Marie asked, still not putting what Yuon had said before about Alison not becoming one of the walking dead together with what she had just said about the X-Virus.

"Even in death the human body still remains active," Yuon explained, "hair and fingernails continue to grow, new cells are produced, and the brain itself holds a small electrical charge that takes months to dissipate. The X-Virus provides a massive jolt, both to cellular growth and to latent electrical impulses. Put quite simply, it reanimates the bodies."

"It brings the dead back to life?" Marie asked in disbelief.

"Not really," Yuon answered, "the reanimated bodies possess the simplest of motor function, perhaps a little memory, virtually no intelligence. They are driven by the simplest of desires, the most basic of needs."

"What need is that?" Marie asked.

"The need to feed," Yuon answered.

"That's why John insisted on being cremated," Marie said, "he knew something like this might happen. He knew that someone, possibly the one he called "that bitch Kulanek" might release it."

"There's no telling how much he knew," Yuon said sadly, "but now isn't the time to speculate. Now is the time for you, gunslinger, to rally those you call walk ins and anyone else from town who might accompany you, and leave this world."

"How much time do we have?" Marie asked, "you said within a month, but do we really have that long?"

"I do believe we have at least three weeks," Yuon said.

"How will I get anyone to believe me?" Marie asked.

"You'll know what to do when the time comes," Yuon answered, "mayhap you'll simply remind some of them of how they walked in from another world."

"It's not the Walk Ins I'm worried about," Marie said, "it's the town locals, the ones who grew up here. They'll hear what I have to say and then go have a town meeting about it, well, actually first they'll have a town meeting to decide weather or not I'm crazy, then if they decide I'm not, they'll have another town meeting to decide weather or not to believe me. The whole thing could take years."

"That could be a problem," Yuon said.

"Yes it could," Marie agreed, "they could still be having one of their damn town meetings on the subject when a bunch of zombies break in and eat them all."

"Mayhap you should enlist the help of your priest," suggested Yuon, "that is if you still follow that rather interesting faith you followed in Gilead."

"I do still follow it," Marie said, touching the rosary she wore as she spoke, "and it's possible that Father **Brigham won't need much convincing.**

John made confession regularly, and it's possible he told Father **Brigham everything I found in his journals. Weather or not Father Brigham can convince enough people to follow us is the question that remains unanswered."**

"The sooner you begin," Yuon said, "the sooner you'll know."

"You talk as if you won't be there," Marie said.

"I have something else I was directed to do," Yuon said, "besides, if your daughter thought I was some kind of odd bird, what do you think the reaction of the people of Castle Rock will be?"

"They'll probably just think the aliens have landed or something," Marie said. It was intended to be a joke, but somehow there was no humor in it.

"That could be a problem," Yuon said, "and one this world doesn't need a repetition of."

"What do you mean by that?" Marie asked.

"One of us was stranded here by accident thirty-four years ago," Yuon explained, "he was a crewman aboard a botany ship. The crew were all extremely young by our standards. None of them had even gone beyond first stage. They were seen by a group from this country's military and fled back to the ship, but he was too slow and the ship took off without him. Scientists employed by the government of this country were after him from the beginning of his stay till the end of it. At one point, he died and then resurrected, but before that happened, government scientists took tissue and blood samples from him. Those samples were guarded; I believe the term here is classified as top secret, until the Corporation arrived in this world eight years later. They got hold of the samples, began experimenting with them, and eventually created the prototype of the X-Virus."

"You're not serious!" cried Marie.

"I am," Yuon said.

"Does he know?" Marie inquired.

"No he doesn't," Yuon replied, "and it would be better for him if he never did. He developed a psychic link with the child who encountered him and tried to help him, and when the X-Virus is released, the man the child became will die, along with the rest of his family. If he knew, he would blame himself for his Earth brother's death.

"Damn the Corporation!" Marie cried, "damn them all to an eternity alone and friendless! May their first day in Hell last ten thousand years, and may it be the shortest!"

"Peace, gunslinger," Yuon said, "peace. All may come right, ka willing."

"Ka is cruel," Marie said, tears filling her eyes, "cruel and cold. Ka loves no man, woman, child, or Miriana. Ka has given me endless life and no one to share it with. All I love eventually die. All that I love will be carried away."

"Sometimes Ka can be merciful," Yuon said, "ka has insured that some of your kind will survive. Ka has insured that there is a light in the coming darkness. The Corporation has enemies arrayed against it, enemies it never suspected, enemies it fears."

"What enemies?" Marie inquired.

"Gunslingers," Yuon answered, "two of whom are known to you."

"Who?" Marie asked, "all my old ka mates are dead, save Roland, and he is far away."

"Mark Rimer and Alison Hartley," responded Yuon, "you were right when you thought they walked out. They found a door to your world and went through. There they met your Roland's younger brother, who was taken from Gilead shortly after his birth, who trained them in the ways of the gun. They accompanied him and Roland to the Dark Tower, the Tower of the Rising Moon as we call it, climbed to the top, and were brought to Miria. Since then, they have struck a blow against the Corporation, taking from them two who were very important to their plans, although Alison was infected with the X-Virus, as was Stephen Deschain the younger. So far, nothing has happened to Sai Deschain, but Alison is undergoing a mutative process that will end in her having wings."

"I don't think that's a random mutation," Marie said, "John said in his journals that the version of X he infected Mark and Alison with was special. Maybe he knew what was going to happen and that a winged gunslinger would be more formidable than one who stands rooted to the ground by gravity."

"I detect sadness in your thoughts," Yuon said gently.

"As always, Yuon, you're right," Marie said, "John used them like pieces on a game board. I think I was the only one he ever really cared about as a person, as for everyone else, they were just there to be used, or they were his enemies."

"True Corporation," Yuon said.

A few minutes later, as Marie was preparing to leave the house for the last time, Yuon once again teleported, this time to New York City, and to the building that housed the Tet Corporation. Casting a shield round herself, so no one could either see or interfere with her, she entered the lobby, approached the square of bare earth in the center, fluttered her wings, and glided over the ropes that separated the small garden from the room proper.

She knelt before the rose that grew in the exact center of this little piece of nature within the heart of human construction, and the rose nodded toward her, opening for her as it did. Its song, consisting of an infinity of voices, surrounded her and seemed to sing her own name.

"At last, Yuon, you have come. I come with you willingly, to Miria and healing."

A moment later, Yuon, carrying the rose, which had uprooted itself at her first touch, disappeared from the Tet Corporation's lobby and reappeared on Miria, her mission complete.

The days went by as Jenna tried to heal Marie. Alex insisted on sitting beside her as soon as it wouldn't hurt him.

As he watched her restful face, he struggled within.

You have to let her go. You can't curse her like this, you damn well know it.

But she's the one thing I can't...and don't want...to resist.

That's why you should let her go. If you know what's good for her...

All right, dammit, I'm a selfish bastard.

You want to see her happy.

Yes, of course.

But if you want to see her happy, wouldn't you let her go?

She looks at me so trustingly. She sees nothing but my eyes. They're the same. Nothing else registers to her. She is happy.

But if you could make it register...

That's the one thing I don't want to do, he thought. I don't want to show her, I don't want to curse her to a half-life like mine, I don't want to hurt her, but God, she's perfect. Perfect!

Let it go, you're the Nightstalker. You're not human anymore, even if you feel it. You can't ever be again. Go off and be alone. It's what you were made for. If Jenna can do nothing for you, then no one can. There's no going back. The point of no return was crossed four months ago when they took you from Rainbow Falls...and from Marie. Quit lying to yourself, quit doing things that will hurt Marie eventually, have Yuon transport you back and...

My beating heart is still human. My blood is still human, but altered.

Exactly...altered. And look at you. Don't even lie to yourself about that.

When Marie woke, he was beside her. He had been taking his hour of trance, and her stirring within his mind wakened him. Her thoughts were warm, peaceful, soft. He wanted to hold on to them. He hadn't known peace in so long, or warmth, or anything real. It didn't erase that he should not exist, but it eased the unhealable wounds somewhat. Those were scars that simply couldn't go away.

Alex, she said.

Even if you decided to let her go, you couldn't, he thought in the innermost recesses of his mind. You're too strongly connected to her. Thanks to your little move at that damned Corporation battle, trying to break her with the effects of her own attack. You're trapped now.

No wonder she only sees your eyes ... something said mockingly, offering up a drink of the bitterness that the thought dripped to his mind in a vessel of defeat.

I will face any army, any darkness, with no fear, he thought. But I run from my own mind. It is true, even in the changed mind, that men's worst fears lie sleeping in their own souls.

Marie, he sent to her quietly.

Her face turned to him, looked up, straight to his eyes.

All she sees are my eyes...

Don't look at my face, Marie, I can't let you go...

Look at me, Marie, if you have any sense in you and if you would like to be happy, don't, just run away, just go...

We all live and we all die, but that does not begin to justify you, he thought bitterly at the Corporation. What a strange little song that was, he mused.

He looked back at Marie, many half-formed thoughts flitting through his head that he wanted to say, and couldn't. He wanted to go to her, but Jenna had insisted that he not. "You can't go undoing what we've done," she said. "Keep breaking a wound open and it will never heal." What a strange thing to say, and how true in all instances of it, he thought. How much of a telepath is Jenna?

Marie drifted back to sleep, face toward him, still and perfect. He was afraid to move, afraid to breathe, lest the spell of her be broken, because she was beautiful and perfect and if it was broken, something would mar her.

Jenna entered quietly, and he only noticed her when she had drifted up beside him and was standing as still as he was sitting, looking at him pensively. What was going on behind the mask of the eternally young, elven face? That was one mind he couldn't read. And he couldn't read Marie. He'd never been able to read Marie, even before, when he was what a Miriana would have called a shadow.

He'd worked for no one, was no one's puppet, and only gave a semblance of loyalty, a painting done with delicate, careful strokes by a master artist to cover what really lay beneath it. He only gave even the picture when he wanted something. In all his life he'd only ever shown true loyalty to very, very few, and he was fiercely loyal to them, fanatically loyal almost. No torture would get their secrets out of him, no horror would he fear to face for them. But they were both dead, both his precious, innocent, naive sisters he'd fought so bitterly to protect since his parents died when he was eighteen (he'd suspected murder, rather than an accident), and that life was washed away in the cold light of what he was now.

"I haven't seen that kind of pure light in a face in ..." Jenna trailed off, but even her voice was hushed, as though she were hesitant to speak.

Marie's eyes had drifted closed, long dark lashes lying still on her cheek, her face in perfect, serene repose, a half-smile on her lips, her raven's-wing hair spread out like a dark, silky halo outlining her face like a perfect pendant on the white pillow. He felt a sudden urge to reach out and touch her face, to make sure it was really there, that she was really alive, that she was really so silken and perfect. He could feel her heart beating, measured and calm, and he knew that to be real.

"You're afraid," said Jenna gently. "That's understandable. You can't lose her. That's understandable, too." She was looking up at him, and her want, her genuine need, to help him was touching. If she'd known him before she wouldn't have helped him, Sister dedicated to healing or no. He was evil. Had been? Still was? "You have forgotten the face of your father," the gunslingers would have said to him.

She reached up and touched his face. "I would heal this if I could. But I cannot. It is too warped, the damage too deep for me to risk hurting you." A lock of her dark hair fell over one eye and she absently flicked it aside.

"She loves you for who you are. She doesn't care, you know."

Why? he finally asked.

She seemed to understand. "Oh, Alex, in her eyes you are picture-perfect. The fact that you stayed alive forgives you to her. She loved you when she first set eyes on you, and I believe she had some precognition. She didn't care that you would betray everything she'd fought for, because she knew you never would in the end."

I would have. Without hesitation. I believed that she got Anna killed, God knows I didn't want to see anything in her eyes. I resisted. Something drew me, irresistibly, to help her when she fell in Rainbow Falls though, and ... I knew, all in a flash, that I was lying to myself, that I wasn't going to see her dead and cold. And she tried to save Anna, and later Rose. I realized that we were all playing a game and we'd probably all die playing that game with lies in our mouths ... and that shook everything I based my philosophy on.

He paused. She stood beside him, simply there. He was grateful for her presence, for her quiet; it helped the memories release themselves into the past.

They were so innocent. They knew nothing. They were just like Mom. I got Dad's mind, Dad's personality, but I looked like her. Dad was darkness, I was grey, like Mother. Anna and Rose ... They were light. Light like Marie was, before the Corporation I suppose. He would have cried if he were still fully human, but he was still as a stone statue, a telepathic statue, and his eyes were closed, remembering.

Marie stirred again. "Yuon," she said, and Yuon was there. Jenna rushed off to help her with something, but returned to Maria's side almost immediately, bringing with her touch the sleep of temperary forgetfulness.


	7. Chapter 7 Betrayed!

Mark awoke the next morning and noticed a new music in the pavilion. He traced its source and found, in the center of the circle of boa-lilies he had made in the aisle, a rose. Just a single wild rose, but a rose he had heard tell of. He had never thought to see it, although he had heard the instructions given to Yuon. He had thought at the time that Yuon would hide it, but wasn't the pavilion itself hidden? No further attacks by knife-wielding Mirianas had occurred since the pavilion had been moved.

He approached the rose and knelt before it. As he listened to its song, he saw a billion stories, all interwoven into one. He saw himself rescuing Alison from her Father in the parking lot of a Boston drinking establishment, he saw Alison escaping from what appeared to be evil spirits, he saw Roland, Eddie, Susannah, Jake, and Oy triumphing over the guards in the Devar Toi, he saw a first-stage Miriana, apparently dead, suddenly come to life, he saw Jenna's face, transported with the pure joy of healing, he saw Alex, his face healed of its deformities, he saw two men rescuing a child from a monster whose entire face seemed to consist of a single eye, he saw himself and Alison, both winged, flying through the cloudless skies of an untainted world, possibly Miria.

"The White!" he thought, "the voice and presence of the White!"

As he knelt, the rose opened to him, petal upon petal, revealing a trillion suns, all blazing with light and life. He stretched out his hand, knowing that he was in no danger, but at the same time awed by this thing of beauty he had never thought to see. As his fingers touched the glowing microverse within the rose, he swooned, and when he came back to himself, he found himself wanting, no, needing to visit Yuon's gardens again.

He stood carefully, walked to the entrance of the pavilion, went to the edge of the pool, looked into its depths for a moment, and moved away, making his way, although he didn't know it, toward the most secret place in Yuon's gardens. He drew closer and closer to Yuon's grove, his steps taking him on a course that seemed afterwards to have been predetermined. He approached the tallest of the mistwoods, the one in the exact center of the grove, knelt before it, and touched the smooth bark of the tree.

At his touch, the tree itself seemed to split, revealing a passage that led downward into the very hill. Not knowing why, but needing to, Mark began descending, having a bit of difficulty with the stairs, as they had been constructed for Mirianas. After an unknown amount of time had passed, he reached the bottom of the spiral stairway within the tree and found himself in a passage that led into darkness. This he followed until a door blocked his way. Rather than simply turn and retrace his steps, he reached toward the door and it opened at his touch.

He found himself standing in a lighted chamber that looked somewhat like a medical facility. Unknown instruments were ranged on a table to his right, to his left stood what looked to be the most advanced equipment he had ever seen, equipment whose purpose he didn't even want to guess at, and immediately in front of him, he saw four glass-fronted cylindrical containers, two of which were empty.

"So, this is where Cianan's and Iyana's Miriana bodies were kept while they were in human form on earth," Mark thought, "but who are the other two?"

He approached the foremost of the two occupied containers, and looked through the transparent front at the form that slumbered within. It appeared to be a Miriana of darker skin than any he had yet seen, but its darkness didn't put him in mind of anything evil, rather of power and of knowledge.

As he examined the container more closely, he noticed that it, unlike the ones in which Cianan's and Iyana's Miriana bodies had been stored, had something inscribed on it. He attempted to read it, but the message meant nothing to him. He reached forward, obeying an inner voice he couldn't identify, and touched the inscription. Suddenly, the meaning of the inscription came clear in his mind.

"Here rests the body of Maerlyn, he who created the thirteen bends of the rainbow, he who has been forgotten, he who must return. Miria cries for him. Too long has he remained lost. When he returns, many things will change, evil will meet its ancient enemies, what was begun will be completed, and the universe will be reshaped."

"Wow," Mark thought, "whoever Maerlyn was, they certainly set a lot on his shoulders if he..." At that moment, he noticed that his finger seemed to have become fused to the metal of the container in which the body of Maerlyn rested, and as he noticed this, he felt himself pulled from his body, and into a region of mists in which stars, galaxies, universes spun. He saw, as if from afar, worlds rise and fall. Civilizations rose and were brought low before his wondering eyes. New civilizations rose to take the place of the old, just rulers were overthrown and cruel despots took their places, great empires spread across worlds without number, great deeds were done, hero's were overthrown, empires declined and fell, sand choked the streets of a trillion cities, and through it all, a dying wind of change blew, bringing with it the cinnamon smell of late October.

Before his eyes, one world seemed to come closer, as if the view were zooming in on it. He saw three moons in orbit about that world, and on its surface, beings he recognized as Mirianas. He picked out the mountains he had seen from Yuon's tower, but something felt different about the scene.

"Older," he thought, "it's older, possibly by thousands of years."

As the scene before him drew closer, he saw the Miriana from the containment unit, now standing at the head of a great column of what appeared to be Miriana soldiers. He saw an army approaching, an army that seemed to be made up of a combination of Mirianas and humanoid creatures. Behind Maerlyn's column, a great city lay in ruin, flames leapt into the sky, blood soaked the ground at the feet of the approaching forces. Before Mark could see any more, a flash of multi-colored light obscured his vision and he fell, unconscious, to the floor of the chamber.

Alex woke to the sound of a song...a song the like of which he'd never heard before, a song that, mixed with the bells and the Little Doctors, was so beautiful it couldn't be described.

He sat up, suddenly feeling life renewed within him. He looked about, and found the source of the song.

Away to the side a patch of ground had been cleared, save for twelve feathery white flowers. In the center of the circle they made grew a rose, a single wild rose.

He didn't realize that he was standing until he was...somewhat unsteadily, but standing nonetheless. With slow steps, he made his way to the rose. Hesitantly, he reached out. He hadn't seen something so simple and achingly beautiful in ... Oh, God didn't want to remember. And somehow, irresistibly, it drew him.

It nodded to him and opened, a glorious blossom of color.

But it was what was in its center that kept him captivated, spellbound, mesmerized.

There were galaxies whirling within the rose! Hundreds, no thousands, no millions...no, galaxies beyond measure were contained within it.

Light spilled out of the rose and over his hands and through his body. The Little Doctors cried out with joy and swarmed over him, and he half-slumped in a deep, healing slumber.

Jenna stood at the entrance to the pavilion, watching as Mark disappeared into Yuon's gardens. After a moment, she approached the pool and the crystal. At her approach, the crystal's color changed from a soft grey to a bright white. Yuon had told her that Corunan's color changed according to mood, and that this particular color meant great happiness. She wondered what could be causing the embodiment of Miria's spirit to be experiencing such joy, what with the corruption at the very heart of Mirian government and the danger posed by that corruption, but she knew that Corunan could also see far off, into other worlds, so mayhap it was something in one of those other worlds that was causing the emotion. Mayhap.

Before her musings could go on any further, she heard a sound from the direction of the pavilion, a sound as if one of her charges had fallen from their bed. This sound was followed by the song of the Little Doctors, a song of unbridled joy, the joy of healing, but not just healing. It was a joy of healing that which could not be healed. Jenna ran back to the pavilion as fast as she could, her gown flowing out behind her, the dark bells ringing out, their sound mingling with the song of the little Doctors.

When she reached the pavilion's entrance, she stopped in shock. Alex was half sitting, half sprawling on the ground within the circle of Boa-lilies Mark had planted in the aisle, his hand mere inches from the rose Yuon had brought from Earth. The little Doctors were clustered thickly on his head, and Jenna could see, actually see his face reknitting beneath the feathery mass of insects.

"Yuon!" Jenna called at

the top of her mental voice, "Mother!"

Yuon entered the pavilion, nearly flying.

'I am here," she said reassuringly, "what is wrong?"

"Nothing is wrong, Mother," Jenna replied, giving voice to her secret longing for the first time, "look! His face was unhealable, but look at it now!"

"The rose," Yuon said simply.

"But..." Jenna began, but before she could continue, Yuon was through the entrance flap and out of sight.

"Where is she off to now?" Jenna wondered. She received her answer a few minutes later, when Yuon reappeared, carrying Mark.

"What has happened to him?" Jenna inquired a few minutes later.

"He has begun a quest for knowledge," Yuon answered, "he desired to know of Maerlyn." She stood next to Jenna, looking down at Mark, who had been placed in the bed next to Alison's. The little Doctors were currently investigating a bruise he had given himself in the fall, but they could find no other injuries.

"Was that necessary, Yuon?" Jenna asked as she moved from bed to bed.

"I'm afraid it was," Yuon answered, "there was no other way."

"There was," Jenna countered, "you could simply have told him."

"Would he have believed me if I had?" Yuon asked.

"he might have," Jenna replied, "but there's no telling what this will do to him."

"He is in no danger," said Yuon.

"I hope you are right," Jenna said as she stopped by Iyana.

Mark awoke nearly an hour later. He looked about and saw that he was no longer in Yuon's chamber.

"Where's the dark Miriana?" He asked, "where's Maerlyn?"

"You were dreaming," Jenna said, "you took a bad fall."

"I don't usually see visions when I take a bad fall," Mark answered, "I usually just see stars and get back up. What exactly happened?"

That's for Yuon to tell you," Jenna replied, "I do not know all."

"Around here," Mark said, "nobody ever seems to. What the hell is it about people that makes them want to constantly make life one big goddamn riddle? I mean, just once I'd like to have everything laid out neatly with nothing hidden."

"That'd be boring," Alison said suddenly.

"Well, dear," Mark said, "I'd rather be a bit bored right now. I've had enough riddles for a wile."

"How are you feeling?" Alison asked.

"Apart from a sore head, fine," Mark replied, 'and how's your back?

"It feels better," Alison answered, "I think they'll be fine now."

"You think what'll be fine now?" Mark asked, his face telling all that he felt as if another riddle had just popped out and hit him right in the face.

"My wings," answered Alison.

"Your what?" Mark asked in disbelief.

"My wings," Alison repeated, "that's why I was in such pain. When Niamh bit me I started mutating, and the mutation's making me grow wings. I'll actually be able to fly! Just like I always dreamed of doing!"

"Wings," Mark said, "alrighty then."

"You should rest, Alison," Jenna said, laying her hand on Alison's forehead, "rest and let them grow."

Wings," Mark repeated, "what next? Alex's face healing? Miriana muggers? Feather gardens, maybe?"

"Have a care with your questions, gunslinger," Stephen said, causing Mark to jump in surprise, "your words on Earth have all nearly come to pass."

"Don't I know it?" Mark said, "all we need now to make it complete is for me to start growing wings too."

"What would make you start to grow wings?" Alison asked with a smile.

'I don't know," Mark replied, "maybe I'll just wake up one morning and Bingo! There they'll be!"

"Not unless you go to sleep infected," Stephen said.

"Oh, that's funny," mark said, "a real scream! By the way, how's the X Virus treating you? You were bitten by Allen or whatever his name was, but you're not even doing so much as growing wings. All you did was fall in love with a goddess."

"Say what?" Alison asked.

"Oh," replied Mark, "there was this goddess who showed up in here while you were sleeping and Iyana was being fed a nightmare by that child killing cunt Kulanek. She and two others put things right where that was concerned, and then, just for an encore, she and Stephen fell in love. He's even got the mark of the open red rose to prove it."

"Mark of the open red rose?" Alison asked, and then saw what Mark was talking about.

"Nice," she said, 'and I take it that that means something special?"

"From what Jenna told us," Mark said, "he can never be with anyone else, not that he wants to. If he ever was, I have a feeling that there'd be trouble."

"There most likely would," Stephen agreed.

over the next couple of hours, mark rested, his hand held in Alison's. But after he awoke, he left the pavilion and started out for the market he had visited before. He knew that more supplies were needed, primarily food. He had obtained a generous supply of Mirian currency and foresaw few problems. He reckoned without the three fifth-stage Mirianas who accosted him as he was leaving the market.

He was just finishing the process of packing the last of the goods he had purchased when they approached him and drew what appeared to be curved knives from sheathes at their sides.

"Oh, great," Mark thought, "I'm about to get robbed by three Mirianas."

He drew his right gun with lightning speed and squeezed off three shots. The knives flew from the hands of the wood-be thieves.

"Are you bored, or something?" Mark asked in English, "get a life."

The three Mirianas, now weaponless, ran for cover.

: What the hell is this?" Mark asked as he reentered the pavilion, "a guy can't even go shopping without some idiot trying to rob him at knife point? I thought this was Miria, not New York City."

"Eddie, Susannah, and Jake came from New York," Stephen reminded.

"They were the good New Yorkers," Mark responded, "and I think I know now what happened to their asshole quotient. Those three Mirianas got it all."

"I think not," Stephen said, "mayhap someone knows we are here."

"No, you think?" Mark said, sarcasm apparent in his voice, "I thought royal guards got disarmed by gunslingers around here all the time. Of course someone knows we're here, but why wait all this time. Andelin could have sent more thugs after us before now."

"I know not," Stephen answered, "mayhap she knows something."

"Like what?" Mark asked, "and how would she? It's not as if she's got a spy in the pavilion. The only people I see around here are you, Jenna, Yuon, Alison, Ashlee, Marie, and Alex, and none of you are spies, and as for me, I know damn well I'm not telling her anything, unless I'm sleep spying again."

"You have never..." Stephen began.

"It's a joke, Stephen," Mark said.

"Maybe I should go with you next time," Alison said.

'I'd like that," Mark said, taking Alison's hand.

"It's a date, then," Alison said, raising Mark's hand to her cheek, holding it there for a moment, and then kissing it, causing Mark to smile.

Jenna was alone with Alex when he awoke. Marie had been awake, but she was sleeping again.

What happened? he asked when he was fully awake.

"Have a look for yourself." Jenna got a mirror from somewhere.

If it were smaller, he thought, it could have been the face of an entirely different person. He sat stunned for a moment. How can I repay you? He reached up and touched his face to make sure it was really healed. There was no other way to believe it.

Jenna smiled. "You don't have to. And you shouldn't thank me. Thank the rose, or the Doctors, I'm not sure which really made it possible. But they will ask nothing of you in return. Their joy at healing you is payment enough to them, and to me."

Marie suddenly sat up. "Oh, it's so pretty!" she said. It was eerily childlike.

The music?

She turned to look at him sitting there. Startled, she said, "You've changed!"

Slowly, she pushed herself up with her hands and carefully stood up. For a moment it seemed as though she wavered and would fall, and then she went to Alex and reached up, touching his face. Her touch sent little flickers of flame racing through him. He caught her hand and looked at her, wondering anew. No one should be so beautiful; it's like Alai herself incarnate. She simply couldn't be real. Could she? No, she couldn't, yet she was there.

It's not possible, he said quietly, wonderingly.

"It is," she whispered.

Discreetly, Jenna had withdrawn to care for Alison, whose wings had finally budded. The Little Doctors, with Stephen's help, had managed to straighten the bones.

But she was worried about Iyana. The young Miriana woke rarely and briefly and was never coherent. She always went on and on, babbling and mumbling, when she was awake. She'd appeared to think she was in the Corporation's Canada facility, and then she was a small child, and then she was remembering, and she would cry out and toss and turn. Cianan was there, and comforted her during her few waking moments, which were spent in an agonizing torment that Jenna could only begin to comprehend...and wished she didn't. What was happening within Iyana's ravaged body that defied every attempt at healing? What terrible transformation was occurring, what horrifying form would be revealed within her shattered body when it finally tore itself from the state imposed on it by her Miriana past? She would hate to release Iyana. And she felt she shouldn't. Ka didn't will it.

Now that Alex and Marie were requiring less and less special attention, she could devote time to Alison and Iyana. Niamh was gaining control of her infection and Stephen had flat-out insisted that he had control of his own. Mark and Ashlee helped with Marie and Alex, seeing as how they were beginning to need less attention, and Alison when they could. Yuon was often there too, and Tiannen visited occasionally. Yuon, Jenna, Mark, and Ashlee cared for their four regular patients day in and day out.

The day came when Alex and Marie could leave the pavilion. They healed remarkably quickly, thanks to some of the X-virus's abilities and the doctors' healing. Alison's back had healed but her wings were still growing at an uncomfortable rate. She was still quite weak, but was often awake. All in all, most things were going well...except with Iyana.

Over the next few days, Mark noticed a marked improvement in both Alex's and Marie's conditions. Before the end of the day during which Mark had been accosted by the three "knifemen," as he'd begun calling them, the two formerly unconscious patients were up and exploring Yuon's gardens.

"You must still rest," admonished Jenna as Alex was about to leave the pavilion before the sun, or actually suns, had even risen one morning, "you're not indestructible."

"He's the closest thing to it," Mark remarked, "I know that I certainly wouldn't want to get into a pissing contest with him."

"He is strong," Jenna said, "but he can still be hurt, and part of that hurt will likely stem from his own over-eagerness."

"That's nonsense," Alex said, carrying Marie out of the pavilion.

"I wonder where he's going," Mark said to nobody in particular, "they've already seen everything in Yuon's gardens but that tree that opens up and has Dr. Yuonstein's lab under it."

"Who is this Dr. Yuonstein?" Stephen asked.

"Never mind," mark laughed, "I swear, you'll never understand jokes. You've got no sense of humor what so ever."

After saying that, Mark and Alison, who was also awake, left the pavilion and made their way to the pool. Almost immediately after they had seated themselves on the soft bed of tiny rehtaef plants that grew near its edge, they noticed something in the sky, or to be more accurate, two somethings. Their eyes grew wide as they both realized at the same moment what those shapes were.

"it's a bird, it's a plane, it's Super Breakers!" Mark cried, affecting the exaggerated delivery of a 50s style TV narrator, "faster than a speeding hand grenade! Able to leap cringing Corporation goons at a single bound!"

"You're silly," Alison laughed.

"Look at them!" Mark said, laughing in his own turn, "they're f-f-flying like Superman, only without the suit! Come to that, they don't have any clothes on at all!"

"It'll give some Miriana something to think about," Alison said, "they'll probably be wondering where those clothes came from for a thousand years."

"Not if they got a look at those two," Mark replied, "it's pretty obvious what they're up to up there."

"If a child comes of it," Alison said, "I wonder how they'll explain his or her birth."

"They'll probably say something like, oh, you were born because your Daddy and I went flying one day and decided to screw in the sky, disturbing every bird on Miria in the process," Mark said with a smile.

"What in the name of all the gods?" cried a voice from behind Mark. He spun, hands dipping for guns, and saw Jenna standing by the pool's edge, a look of utter disbelief on her eternally young face.

"Oh, nothing," Alison said, "Alex and Marie just found a new use for air currents."

"They should be..." Jenna began.

? Yeah," cut in mark, "they should be resting, but they apparently have other ideas of what they should be doing."

"I should..." Jenna spluttered.

"You should what?" Mark inquired, "use those wings you don't have and fly up there and give them a good talking to? I don't know about you, but I'm put in mind of that old joke about where a dinosaur sits in a movie theater."

"What?" Jenna asked.

"Never mind," responded Mark, "I swear, between you and Stephen, it's a wonder there's any humor left in the universe."

"I do not think this is a humorous situation," Jenna said icily.

"But it is," Mark answered, "here you are, little Sister Jenna, thinking of somehow flying into the sky to stop a giant and a super-powerful breaker from doing whatever they want to. The Corporation couldn't stop them, the X Virus couldn't stop them, zombies couldn't stop them, but you think you're going to by simply giving them a stern talking to? Somehow I just don't see it happening."

Jenna turned and walked off, presumably back to the pavilion. Mark and Alison, meanwhile, sat by the pool for a while longer, watching as the twin suns of Miria rose higher in the sky.

"Maybe we should follow Jenna's example and get under cover," Mark finally said, "I have a feeling it's going to get extremely hot before long."

Alison took Mark's hand, rose with him, wincing a bit at a pain in her back, and walked with him back toward the pavilion. When they arrived back inside a couple minutes later, they noticed that another of the beds was occupied.

"Who the...?" Mark began. Alison was silent as she looked down at the new patient, who appeared to be a youngish woman, Alison guessed her age at about thirty or so, with pale skin, torn clothing that appeared to have just been put through a car wash, and open wounds in her side and chest. Her left arm hung uselessly at her side. She was covered in Little Doctors, whose song was, for the moment, silent. Sitting beside her, holding her hand, was a young man who appeared to be in his early twenty's.

"Here we go again," Mark said, "we can't even leave anywhere for five minutes without someone new popping up."

"She was in need of healing," Jenna said, "and Yuon brought her and her man here. otherwise, she would have died."

"But who the hell is she?" Mark asked, "is she a Corporation victim?"

"In a way," said a voice from behind Mark, 'a victim of one of Janes Kulanek's experiments."

"And what kind of experiment was it?" Mark asked after moving his hands away from his guns, "the kind that tries to see how fucking much you can do to a person before they just give up and die?"

"No," answered the figure who had been behind Mark, "mind manipulation, programming, assassin training."

"It doesn't look like it worked too well," Mark said.

"But it did," stated the figure, "between 1988 and 1990 she killed nearly a hundred people, then she escaped from where she was being held and killed a psychotic killer."

"Alright," Mark said, getting over his surprise a bit, "now could you please explain this shit from the beginning and not in the middle or near the end? Just for once, I'd like to have all the information laid out neatly before something serious happens."

"Very well," said the figure, stepping into the light, revealing himself to be human in appearance, with black hair, dark eyes, and a look about him that said he had seen much, more than any human could possibly have seen, 'on Earth I went by the name of David Simool. The woman's name is Angela Baker. She..."

"The Angel of death?" Mark asked in disbelief.

"Yes," replied the being who had been David Simool on earth, "in any case, as you know at least part of her story, there is no need to go into the early details. Suffice it to say that after what happened in 1990, she was caught and placed in Blue Skies Sanitarium. During her time there, I began working with her and discovered almost immediately that she had been tampered with during her first stay there back in 1982. I managed to break her programming, but I wasn't able to correct all the damage Kulanek did to her. She still suffered hallucinations. We were working on that problem when several of my erstwhile fellow doctors decided to put her to a final test."

"What exact kind of test are we talking about here?" Alison asked.

"The kind that involved taking her back to the scene of her crimes," Simool replied, "needless to say, it didn't go well. She got away from her doctors and lost herself in the woods surrounding the summer camp..."

"Camp Rolling Hills," Mark contributed.

"Yes," Simool responded, "but there was someone else out there, one of our other patients, a psychotic named Edgar Duncan. He killed Angela's escorts as well as a number of others, made his way to the camp, killed most of the counselors, and finished up in a fight to the death with Angela. She won, but as you see, she's pretty much the worse for ware."

"You said that you were known as David Simool on earth," Alison said, "but who are you really?"

"That, lady gunslinger, is an extremely long and complicated story," Simool replied.

"We'll settle for the freeze dried version," mark said.

"I have many names," Simool began, "I have walked many worlds. I was old when this universe was just beginning. I stood watching as one of the race of Miria stood watch over yonder rose, when its song had not yet begun. Some have called me a god, but I was never one of those. I existed before the multiverse you are fighting to save. I have been the enemy of the one known as Janes Kulanek since before her birth as a nightling on Miria. My true name would be unpronounceable by most in the universe. I have walked on the soil of worlds forgotten, have watched the deaths of stars so ancient that even the Mirianas seem young by comparison, have seen multiverses rise and fall, have seen an almost infinite number of discords, have walked the spaces between spaces before there was life outside my sphere of origin."

"That really helps," Mark said.

"There can be no simple answers," simool responded, "It is enough to know that you have another ally in your battle."

"Why did you bring Angela here?" Alison asked.

"She deserves her chance to strike a blow against the Corporation," Simool replied, "they did so much to her."

"And when she gets her chance," Mark said, "it's probably going to suck to be Kulanek!"

"I'd say," Alison agreed.

The being who called himself David Simool departed a short time later, after taking Yuon aside briefly. Nobody saw how he departed Miria, just as none had seen him arrive.

"And just when we thought things couldn't get any more complicated," Mark said as he was aiding Jenna in the making of food for her patients.

"At the least, ka has insured that we have much on our side," Jenna said.

"Then why is Iyana still unconscious?" Mark asked, "that worries me. She hasn't really recovered at all since that day she was attacked in her dreams. Sometimes she seems to be awake, but then she starts raving and slips back into unconsciousness again."

"Aye," Jenna said, "that troubles me as well."

"And that's another thing," Mark said, "I didn't know Kulanek was in the habit of invading people's dreams and trying to kill them. I thought she was entirely to preoccupied with trying to destroy worlds, or fill them with zombies, or whatever else she usually does to worry about a single first stage Miriana."

"I understand not why she chose to attack Iyana," Jenna conceded, "but there must be a reason. we just know not why yet."

"Hmmmm, let's think," mark said, "you think it may have something to do with the fact that she has a problem with Iyana, just like she has problems with everyone else who happens to be living and breathing?"

"She does not usually devote so much attention to one person," Jenna said, "she wished Iyana to die. She was a special case. Mayhap because Iyana slipped her control."

"Well, that makes sense," Mark said, "Kulanek does have some serious control issues."

Before the conversation could go on any further, Alex and Marie entered the pavilion.

"Well, I'm not sure whether you two have gone mad or not, or whether to be angry or happy with you, considering the damage you could have done," Jenna said.

Marie suddenly found something invisible fluttering to the left of Jenna's face quite interesting. Alex only grinned.

"Oh, you're impossible!" said Jenna, and smiled. "You're simply impossible, both of you!" And she turned and walked away, leaving Alex laughing in a rolling bass rumble, and Marie suddenly finding quite interesting things to look at that didn't involve either Alex, Jenna, or Yuon. When they went back to their beds, Alex was still grinning ear to ear.

"Quit it," she said, smiling.

Quit what? he asked innocently.

"What's so funny?" Marie asked.

"Ah, nothing, Alex said, and he was away laughing again.

"She's right. You _are_ impossible," Marie said.

"She said that about you, too," Alex returned.

"Shut up, great one," Marie said, smiling.

That made him laugh again and she pointedly ignored him, which made him laugh more, until she turned and glared at him, and then he couldn't decide whether to laugh or not, which made her laughter increase to the point where tears squirted from the corners of her eyes.

On a day nearly two months after the day Alex and Marie had taken their first, and so far only, flight, Mark was standing near Yuon's pool, holding Alison's hand. The two of them had just gotten back from another trip to the open market in Tilian, but this time they had not been assaulted on their way back. It seemed that Andelin had decided that using armed Mirianas to attack them wouldn't work and was probably devising some new plan to give them trouble.

After looking at Alison's wings, which were multi-colored and beautiful, to see if their growth was complete, he sat down with her in the patch of miniature rehtaef plants at the edge of the pool and looked into the water, trying to imagine what lived in its depths. They had heard, thanks to Iyana's ravings and what Jenna had told them, of the thing that had infected Iyana with what, at first, had seemed to be a Fae-made virus, but which was exhibiting characteristics of something else entirely. Mark wondered exactly what variety of creature had been down there when Iyana had fallen into the pool. All he knew was that it was something blue and that the infected portion of it had been red.

"Red," Mark thought, "Now isn't that an interesting coincidence?"

Almost immediately after it had caught hold of Iyana, it, or at least part of it, had exploded, releasing whatever had infected Iyana into the water, possibly polluting the pool.

Nothing else had shown up in the water, but then again, nobody had had the misfortune to fall into it since that time, and to the best of anyone's knowledge, there was no way to quickly analyze the water for pollutants, unless, that was, there was something in Yuon's lab complex that had the ability to find any contaminants with no danger to the people doing the analysis. As far as Mark knew, there was no such device, but he hadn't been able to identify, let alone come close to understanding the equipment he'd seen in the complex beneath Yuon's sung house, so for all he knew, there may have been something down there that could do the job. He only hoped that nobody would have the bad luck to finish up falling into the pool before the doubt as to weather or not the water was polluted was a thing of the past. As the situation now stood, he knew that he, at least, wouldn't be doing so much as dangling his feet in the water, no matter how hot it got thanks to Miria being a planet with twice the usual number of suns.

Then there was the matter of what was wrong with Iyana. Yuon had identified it as the A Virus, an infection apparently created by a rogue Fae at some time in the past, but as time had passed, she had changed her diagnosis to something called the plague of Mortality, whatever the hell that was. Mark didn't have the slightest idea what the Plague of Mortality was, but he didn't like the sound of it one little bit. It sounded like something that would make the X Virus look like the common cold by comparison. If it was the Plague of Mortality, it was more than likely that Iyana would die without regaining consciousness, and if it was actually the virus Yuon had originally thought it to be, Iyana would mutate, as if there weren't already enough random mutations currently going on in the universe.

"Lost in thought, Gunslinger?"

It was Stephen, and he had once again managed to surprise Mark.

"Jesus ball-bouncing barn-burning coffee-drinking pop-spilling beer-guzzling car-chasing Christ on a fucked up motorbike!" Mark exclaimed, hands dipping for guns, "do you have anything other than trying to see how much of the living fuck you can scare out of me to do lately, Stephen?"

"Cry pardon," Stephen apologized, "but you are needed in the pavilion."

"Needed for what?" Mark inquired.

"Jenna needs your aid in gathering herbs for those who require healing," Stephen replied.

"In other words," Mark said, "for Iyana and Angela. Alison's wings are fully grown, Ashlee's wrist is mended, Alex and Marie seem perfectly alright, apart from Marie's recent spell of moodiness, and I think I know the cure for that."

"And what is this cure you speak of?" Stephen asked.

"Another few months, lots of rest, ice-cream, if she craves that, and a birth at the end of it all," answered Mark.

"We know not that she is with child," Stephen said.

"I don't think there's much doubt of it," Mark said, "the two of them were going at it for hours that one day, and sometimes, once is all it takes."

"Mayhap not," Stephen conceded, "but they could not have chosen a worse time."

"Sometimes, when your sexual equipment says go, your brain doesn't have a chance to say no," Mark responded.

Mark and Alison made their way to the pavilion just in time to see Marie entering ahead of them. Jenna had apparently summoned her and Mark believed he knew why.

When they got into the pavilion, Mark and Alison saw Marie, stretched out on one of the beds, covered with Little Doctors. At first, the Doctors simply crawled over her, but when they reached her lower belly, they began actually hopping about and singing excitedly.

"Are they done having a spaz yet?" Marie asked, irritation evident in her voice.

"No, they're not done having a spaz yet. And neither am I, and neither are you, and by the Gods, I'm not sure whether to strangle you, Alex, or the both of you for being so...!" Jenna didn't finish. They both knew Jenna couldn't and most certainly wouldn't ever do that.

"What do you mean?" Marie asked.

"You'd better get Alex before I tell you," Jenna responded.

"Alex, Jenna is having a spaz and insists you come," Marie called.

"Well, then, if o most great one insists ..." Alex said from outside, and within moments, he was striding through the entrance flap.

Marie! he said when he saw the Doctors clustered over her and Jenna beside her.

"I'm fine!" She waved a hand. "Ask Jenna."

A range of emotions passed through Jenna's face, and then she said, "Marie, either you have developed two hearts, or you are pregnant."

Marie sat up so suddenly that the poor Little Doctors fell off of her and milled round her, chirping. Alex looked ridiculous, and she couldn't help but to start laughing at the mixed look on his face...shock, joy, so much combined that it was comical. And she found that she couldn't stop laughing. She was helpless, and fell backward laughing. When she sat up again and saw indignation at her amusement on his face, combined with everything else, she was off laughing again.

"Oh, you are simply impossible! The both of you! Gone mad! Have you no control? Are you out of your minds? Are you ... Why ... What have you...?" Jenna trailed off, and the mix of emotions on her face set both Alex and Marie laughing again.

"I think you've just discovered a talent you never knew you had, Jenna," mark said, "you've discovered how to get the two most powerful breakers anyone ever saw braying like jackasses and stomping the floor."

"I would have preferred the talent of making my charges take advice," Jenna said, somewhat coldly.

"Well," Mark said, "it certainly looks like they took advice from something."

Rather than responding to this, Jenna turned and walked off.

"Sorry, Jenna," Mark said, "I didn't mean to offend you."

Jenna turned back toward him.

"Apology accepted," she said.

The next couple hours were spent in gathering various herbs from Yuon's gardens.

"If I were you," mark said as they approached one particular corner of the gardens, "I wouldn't get too close to those big flowers over there."

"Why?" Alison asked.

"Because those are dragon fire plants, at least that's what I call them," Mark explained, "they look harmless, but they have a habit of spitting radioactive fire at people and trying to bite them."

"Bite them?" asked Alison.

"That's right, they have teeth," Mark answered, "I found that out when an insect got too close to one. I don't know why Yuon or someone else made them, but I'd never want to receive a delivery of them at a party. Maybe they were created as a weapon of war at some time in the past."

"Mirianas don't strike me as the type who would create weapons of war," Alison contributed.

"We were not always as peaceful as we are now," said a voice from somewhere ahead of them, a voice Mark recognized as belonging to Yuon, "there are the old atomics from the miners' War."

"The what the fuck war?" Mark asked.

"A series of battles that took place here billions of years ago," replied Yuon.

"And those old nukes are still kicking around the planet just waiting for some idiot to find them and set them off because they don't have the slightest fucking idea what they're fooling around with and fiddle when they should faddle?" Mark asked in disbelief.

"They are well hidden," Yuon said, "no one knows where they were hidden."

"In my opinion, at least, there's always the possibility someone could find them, even accidentally," Mark said, "if I were you, I'd get some people together and locate and destroy them before some half-witted asshole finds them and makes Miria go boom."

"We have searched for them for hundreds of millions of years, but have found nothing," Yuon said, "some even believe that they never existed at all. The atomics were used, originally, to blast deposits of corulanni from the mountains. It was so deeply embedded that only carefully controlled atomic explosions could give the miners access to it. When they revolted, they threatened to use the atomics to level our cities."

"And why, exactly, did they revolt?" Mark inquired, "and why did they threaten to nuke your cities. Usually when a group is in an argument over salaries they go on strike, not plan a nuclear strike."

"None now know," Yuon answered.

"Oh, great," Mark said, "there are nukes kicking around the planet from a war nobody remembers the reason for any more! What next?"

"I wouldn't go asking any questions about what comes next, dear," Alison said with a smile.

"Don't worry," Mark replied, "I won't."

Days and weeks passed by pretty much without incident. Angela's recovery was eventually complete and Yuon sent her away, probably back to earth. That was the most logical assumption to make, as Mark and Alison had heard of at least one more incident involving her, and possibly more.

There came a day when Yuon called everyone together.

"You have to go back to Earth," she said.

"Are you mad?" Alex spoke aloud...purposely. He, Marie, Mark, Stephen, Jenna, Niamh, Cianan, and Ashlee were gathered around Alison's bed, to which she had been reconfined following a failed attempt to fly which had ended with her nearly breaking her left arm, so she could hear too.

"I'm not mad, Alex," Yuon said calmly. "Sean and Lila are stuck on earth."

"I'm sure no one thought about them!" said Marie. They all stared at her silently, "I mean..."

The coldness pressed in around her.

"We've had over three months to think about what Lila and Sean might be enduring," said Stephen coldly, "to say nothing of the fact that Mark suspects them of deserting before the Bladebird attack. And if they did not desert, they are likely prisoners of the Corporation."

"Give her some slack!" Alex rumbled. "She's pregnant, for God's sake. Her emotions are spastic, but you don't see me looking at her like she killed someone, do you?"

They all turned their eyes on Alex. He glared at them darkly. They looked away first. Stephen held his gaze the longest. Having Alex angry with you is frightening, even with his face whole and fixed.

"We're not sending Niamh with you, and we're keeping Alison and Iyana. We were thinking about sending Cianan with you," Yuon continued as if the interruption had never taken place.

"I don't think so. I'm not leaving Iyana," Cianan contributed.

"Marie's not going," said Alex.

"Alex, I think I can make my own decisions..." Marie began.

"You're not going," Alex interrupted; his voice clearly stated that there was no room for negotiation.

"And when Alex is done negotiating, Alex is done negotiating, and no one can do shit about it," mark thought.

Marie subsided, glaring at Alex, who ignored her.

"And if she doesn't go, neither do I," he finally said.

"Hey, Yuon. Would you happen to have a big bottle of Bladebird-be-gone?" Mark asked.

"I'm not leaving, either, not if Alison could still have complications," Mark said, taking Alison's hand and listening to the sound emitted by the Silkin, a sound somewhat like a baby's coo.

"And I'm not going with only Ashlee," said Stephen.

"Thanks, buddy," Ashlee said.

"Look. Marie can take care of herself, and with Alex, Stephen, and Ashlee there ..." Yuon began.

"Yuon, dammit, she's not going," Alex said.

"Quit ruling my life! I'll go! They're my friends!" said Marie. And she won out.

Everyone turned to Mark.

"I'm not leaving," Mark said, holding Alison's hand more tightly.

"Yuon, can we speed the process?" said Alison.

"Not without damage," Yuon said, "you should not have attempted to fly so soon."

"Then the four of you will go," said Jenna. "I need someone to help me with Iyana and Alison anyway."

Alex looked pleadingly at Yuon. Please. Don't make her go.

Yuon looked back, endless sorrow in her star-eyes. "Oh, Alex. Forgive me."

He looked at her defeatedly.

"Don't look at me like that. Please," she said quietly.

He looked away.

Yuon got up and walked to Marie, making the sign of the seven-pointed star over her body. "Be safe, young one." She began weaving intricate symbols. "Starshine light your way, Essence protect you. Sun tomorrow light the day, for Light to guide you. May the child you bear see day, and Time's grace bless you." Her heart glowed, and a stream of energy, a connection, flowed between herself and Marie, and seemed to solidify. And then it faded, but it was there, like an almost-visible thread in the air. She ended the magic, and stepped away.

How can I repay you? He knew it was the very best Yuon could do.

"You needn't repay me, Alex. You are a walker of the night. But in the end, you were made to lift the veil. That we have you and that you are not ..." She thought. "... turned, is enough, because you have no idea how we really need you."

He looked at her and there were so many things swirling in his eyes that Marie longed to comfort him somehow. But how can you comfort someone who is so separate from any other being, who no longer even has a world or a people to call his own? How can you smile out of the protective folds of your soft little world at a being whose existence shouldn't be possible, whose very great distance from you is daunting even when he stands beside you? How can you say that you know anything about that life to this being, who at times seems so alien that you wonder whether they really were human to begin with? And here she had sought to bridge that gap, and the child within her sought it, and the people around her sought it by welcoming him rather than casting him away in disgust and revulsion at what had been done to him...and what that had done to him. They all welcomed him, but that did not alter the fact that Alex couldn't truly, really truly, ever be one of them again...if he ever had been. And she wanted desperately for that to change, because neither could she. She was the knife-point...balancing on the edge between them, and him. What she was was unclear.

Alex looked down at her and he was tormented. I don't want to lose you.

"You won't," she said quietly.

I want to believe that. You're not like me, Marie. You're so much more fragile than I am. I will not break so easily, but if you do ... you will turn. And ...

What would happen to the child, Marie thought, if I turned? She shivered. She started to have doubts about going back. But Lila and Sean were out there. She couldn't abandon them!

The day Yuon saw them off, there were clouds in the sky. A great storm was coming. The wind was picking up as they stood outside the pavilion.

"Be safe, young ones," said Yuon. And they were all little more than children by Miriana standards. They certainly felt like children, small pieces caught up in a great, unstoppable wave, a storm that none could break, a turning of the universe, a great moving of the pieces on the game-board, and there was nothing they could do about it.

Yuon craned her head back to look up at Alex. "I offered her the best protection I could give. I have given something crucial to Marie, but it was a risk I was willing to take."

Understanding dawned. Oh, Yuon! he said, horrified. You didn't have to...

"But I did," she said, and she seemed bone-weary. She gestured, sending them away.

She gave you a direct connection to her life-force! said Alex when they reached Earth.

"Yuon! We have to..." Marie began, sending telepathically as well as speaking aloud.

"No, not now. She knows where they are. We're very close. Let's just go and...duck!" Alex said, cutting himself off in mid sentence. He'd anticipated the bullets.

"Don't shoot! Don't shoot!" Marie cried. "Who are you?"

They were in the remains of a small town. A familiar red head poked out of one of the only buildings still standing.

"Marie!" Lila cried. "Sean! Sean, it's Marie, Stephen, and Ashlee!"

Sean and Lila came to meet them.

"Don't shoot. He's fine," said Marie. "He would be trying to kill me if he wasn't. And by now, I'd probably be dead."

"Obviously," said Lila.

"We were supposed to get you out, that's all, now..." Marie began.

A hand fell on her shoulder, and something jerked it away. Marie spun to see Alex dangling Janes in the air by one arm.

"Don't," he growled. He raised her as high as he could and threw her down with all the force he could manage, and stepped solidly on her, pinning her. She glared murderously up at him.

"I wouldn't," he growled darkly at her, "if I were you. Have you forgotten that I beat you, not just here, but in your own domain as well?"

Marie turned coldly to Sean and Lila.

"I don't believe this," she said, ice in her voice.

"Marie! We got your sorry ass out of Rainbow Falls..." Lila said.

"Alex did that, and I did_n't_ get out the way I wanted to!" snapped Marie.

"And you think we'd betray you?" Lila asked, guilt evident in her eyes.

"You'd only have done it so the Corporation could experiment on me!" Marie cried, her eyes darkening, "what did they offer you? Life? As if there could ever be any life in this world after what they've done to it."

They burst in from all sides, waves of them. One of them brought Marie down; she was weakened and still recovering from her massive injuries. Alex waded through the Corporation goons, trying to get to Marie, but there were too many of them, over a hundred of them. He swept his mind over them, fighting to lock them to his will, but they kept coming. He controlled them slowly, in twos or threes, until he had a hundred of them against the others, causing pandemonium among them.

He tried to stretch his influence to more of them, but he too was still weakened by the radiation, and they started to slip away. He was fighting on two levels, engaged in battle with four of them at once. He shut down part of his senses, so as to devote more of his mind to the battle. He knew that because he wasn't aware of his pain, he'd never know if he was doing damage or not. He knew that could also prove fatal. Either way, he was going to die, and he knew it. There was infinite sadness in that, but not for himself.

Marie, he called to her and her alone, I love you.

He felt the answering warmth and it tore him apart to have to do this.

He shut off his emotions, too. To feel anything now was to fail. He reflected that he'd once thought that death was the ultimate failure. But if he won and died, that would be enough for him. Death was not a failure. If he let Marie die or be captured, that would be a failure.

He could feel himself slipping back into the cold. He embraced it.

He waded through the Corporation men, shooting left and right, blindingly fast, leaving a trail of destruction, until he found Marie.

She lay, barely breathing, on the ground.

There was the rhythmic thumping of helicopters overhead. Alex looked up. Several of them were circling. With careful precision, he fired, anticipating their movements. Everything did not slow, but it became strangely clear, and slow within his own mind.

He felt as though he had all the time in the world, but he knew he didn't.

He stepped in front of Marie, fired several more careful, perfectly precise shots.

The first helicopter began to fall. He didn't bother to catch it. His strength was fading, and he knew it. He had many, many gunshot wounds. The radiation was reawakening, eating his weakened body.

He raised both hands as they fell. Maybe he could hold them off.

No. That was a lie.

He lowered his hands, and let them fall. One helicopter exploded in a brilliant, incandescent fireball. Another did, too. Several more crashed around them, crushing their own men.

One still flew.

Alex fired again, again, again. Careful, precise shots. His mind was full of a simple clarity, not the blinding clarity of revelation, or the harsh clarity of reality.

It was the simple clarity of resignation. The clarity of truth.

The copter exploded. He raised his arms to shield Marie. It struck him. He fell. Debris rained around him.

He shut his eyes. Consciousness was slipping.

He opened his eyes and looked over. One small, fragile white hand touched his singed, bloody one.

"Marie. "Marie," he called with his mind.

The whisper echoed against the cold light of the stars above.

Marie's hand fell.

"Don't die, Marie," Alex sent.

It was then that he saw that her whole face was a blackened, shattered mess. The whole side of her head was bloody, one of the blades having slashed the whole side of her head open.

He reached again for her small, fragile hand, and poured the last of his energy into her.

He was so calm, so peaceful, so clear. Though fire burned on him and around him, he was satisfied. Marie would live. He had not failed. He was complete.

The image that filled his mind then was of Marie. Marie, looking radiant and perfect, the Marie of over two months before, Marie in the sky, Marie flying, beautiful and shining, Marie flying with him, almost as if she glowed ...

He sighed and closed his eyes.

He thought he could hear the song of the Little Doctors. He felt himself grow lighter. He could hear Jenna's dark bells. And he could hear the music of the rose.

He died smiling, content, or was it merely sleep?

Ashlee and Stephen looked down at his body, horrified. He wasn't breathing. He wasn't moving. There was no reassuring telepathic signal from him. Despite the fact that when they first met him, really met him, he'd also been driven through with a spike, he seemed to have a strange invincibility. You just couldn't bring the great Nightstalker down.

But here, someone had.

Stephen turned to Lila and Sean, fury in every line of his face, hands dipping for guns. "Have you anything to say for yourselves, maggots?" he spat coldly.

They looked back at him. "Only that I would never hurt Marie," said Lila, "never." She was crying.

The lines of Stephen's face were harsh and sharp with anger, an anger he had never known till that moment. "You have forgotten the faces of your fathers," he said, his voice so icy and forceful that Lila and Sean stepped back, "you have betrayed your own din and your own tet. Only damnation can follow such a cowardly act. may your first day in Hell last ten-thousand years, and may it be the shortest!"

Stephen whirled, looked back down...

Marie was there, too. Her whole face was singed black, the whole side of her head torn and bloodied from where the spinning blade of the helicopter had hit it.

"How her head exists at all is a marvle," he thought, "that damned thing should have taken it clean off."

He sighed. They were liable to lose both Marie Immortalis-that-was and Alex, Nightstalker-that-was and before that Alex-that-was and before that Alexander that was.

He reached numbly, groping for the vial, took it out and opened it. The last of the Corporation had slunk out, tails between their legs, because they thought Marie and Alex were dead.

Stephen wanted to see them squirm, squirm as Mark said they would if Angela baker were against them, prepared to kill them in any one of a hundred different ways. Mark had told him much about Angela, about how she had killed, and according to David Simool that was, the Corporation had made her what she was.

But they were probably right in their assumption that Alex and Marie were dead. Even Nightstalker could not have lived through what had just happened.

Stephen bent down, touched Alex's singed face. It was cold, hard, and lifeless as stone. He shut the remarkable silvery-grey eyes.

In the space of three minutes Yuon was there. She beheld the remains of Alex and Marie in dismay.

"She's still alive," she said suddenly. "But Alex ... Oh Gods, Alex ... I don't know. I don't think so."

"He feels lifeless," said Stephen.

"Have you ever touched him before?" Yuon asked.

"No; I never had a reason to," Stephen replied.

"He didn't feel very alive to begin with. He's like stone, live stone," Yuon said, "Come here." Yuon swept the last of the smoldering debris off Marie and Alex. What they could see of him through his mangled clothing was crisscrossed with burns, old scars, and rivulets of blood. His skin, where it didn't appear to be made of stone, was bleeding again. The radiation sickness had got him.

Yuon, Stephen, and Ashlee gathered round.

"Lila? Sean?" inquired Yuon.

"They have forgotten the faces of their fathers," said Stephen coldly, "when we arrived to take them back to Miria, that Todash bitch Kulanek was waiting for us along with several hundred of her lowlings. And they were expecting not only gunslingers, but Alex as well. Why else bring their flying carriages of death and lowlings with scatter rifles? Those two maggots told Kulanek we were coming, though how they knew is a mystery to me. Kah does not smile upon us."

Yuon looked at them, sorrow in her eyes. She raised her hands, gestured, and they were back on Miria and outside the pavilion.

Jenna was there, awaiting their return, but when she saw the results of the battle and the state Alex and Marie were both in, her eternally young face fell. "Oh, Alex, you great giant idiot!" she said. "I'm not sure what I want to do to you; every time you walk out you try to prove yourself indestructible! Stephen, Ashlee, help us!"

Together they hauled Alex into the pavilion and laid him back on his bed. Tiannen and Yuon took Marie.

"What did great one do this time?" asked Mark.

"Alex thinks he's indestructible, and here's something for Alex... he isn't. Even Alex can die. He proved that four months ago; I don't understand why it didn't get through his thick stone skull," said Yuon, exasperated.

"Well, his skull is stone, literally, you can't shoot the fucker," said Mark. "Anything you shoot at him bounces off. I noticed that when a few stray shots hit him that first night."

"A plane landed on him," Yuon said.

"Hell, if bullets bounce off him I can imagine that hurting him, but not killing him," mark said, "pissing him off a little, but definitely not killing him."

"He just got impaled on a radioactive spike before you brought him here!" Yuon cried, "don't you think that would weaken you?"

Little Doctors, millions of the tiny, beautiful feathery creatures, swarmed over Alex, singing. Jenna shook her head gently, and they calmed somewhat.

"Will he live?" Stephen inquired.

"If he doesn't," Jenna said, I can't release him. The X-virus will consume the Doctors on him, the radiation in him warp them if that doesn't. If he must die, I can put him into a deep sleep, and he'll die peacefully. Marie, I think I can heal." Little Doctors swarmed over Marie's head, which had sustained the major wounds, and some spread out over the rest of her.

Jenna pulled Yuon aside. "Personally, I don't think he'll make it," she said.

Yuon cast a glance in Alex's direction. "Me neither," she agreed.

"Should I at least put him to sleep, a sleep only I can lift?" Jenna asked.

"Not yet," Yuon said, not understanding why. "Not yet."

Their eyes met.

"His chances are so low ... I'd estimate ten percent," said Jenna.

"I'd say fifteen," Yuon said.

"That's not much more encouraging," Jenna said sadly.

"Will Marie's child live?" Yuon inquired.

"There's a fifty-fifty chance that it will," Jenna said.

"Will Marie live?" Yuon asked.

"Oh, that's very likely," Jenna replied.

"The great Nightstalker has finally met his match," mark said, his own sadness evident in his voice.

"A bunch of Corporation sapiens," said Jenna, sighing, "and some radiation, and an air carriage falling on him from out of the sky." She shook her head and turned back to Yuon. "Yuon, I know this much: It will be a great miracle if he lives."

"What about in Four?" Yuon asked, "the world mark saw in the vision he was given when he first returned here."

"In Four there was no radiation involved," Mark said, remembering the dream or vision he had experienced, the radiation seemed to have been the breaking point. In Four, Nemesis got up, walked away, and healed."

Yuon shook her head. "Damn it. No one is indestructible."

"Oh, I know someone who is. In fact ..." Jenna said.

"You don't mean ...?" Yuon asked.

"I do mean ..." Jenna replied.

"How will it react to the ...?" Yuon inquired.

"I don't know," Jenna answered.

"Will you ask ...?" Yuon inquired.

"I will ask ..." Jenna answered.

"Jesus Apple Pie Christ at a picnic!" Mark cried, 'can we be any more cryptic?"

Jenna walked off, smiling as if she knew something, leaving mark to wonder exactly what the hell was going to happen next. So far, ka had turned against them, Alex was dying, as was Marie, Alison was hurt, Shawn and Lila had betrayed them to the corporation, and the dark times were growing darker. He wondered how much damage Shawn and Lila's treachery had done to the beams. He knew, thanks to Jenna, that any triumph of the Red, or Todash, weakened them, possibly enough to cause a break, as the fall of Gilead had done long ago. He also knew that the destruction of human civilization on Earth had weakened one of the three beams enough to possibly snap it. What if this turn of events proved to be the final straw? What if...?

He left the pavilion, lost in his own thoughts. He stopped at the edge of the pool and looked into the crystal, Corunan. It was now grey; all light seemed to simply vanish into it. Its color suddenly changed from grey to a bright, burning white.

"What the..." Mark thought.

"You must not despair," said a voice that seemed to come directly from the crystal, "all is not yet lost. Aid is near, aid from a direction unlooked for, aid that will prove the difference between life for all and a final end to existence. Look within yourself for part of the answer. Memory is relative. Some are true, some are false, and some are merely well hidden. Follow your curiosity concerning the one known as Maerlyn. Your quest for knowledge will be rewarded, but only if you search in the proper places. Ka is a wheel. Such it is and always turning it is. Your ka is bound up in the fate of this world, of many worlds. Universes hang by a thread, and it is, I fear, the merest thread."

Mark's hands reached, seemingly of their own will, and touched the crystal. A moment later, darkness engulfed him and he knew no more.


	8. Chapter 8 Other Worlds Than These

In another world entirely, a telepathic signal was received. The receiver was an electronic device in a rather unique craft, of which there were few in the universe in which it resided. The signal caused virtual circuits which had been dormant, some for hours, some for days, to awaken. Elsewhere in the craft, a bell began to ring, a bell whose note was deep and ominous.

The craft's owner, a man whose height was nearly seven feet, whose hair and eyes were dark as the spaces the craft was currently traversing, looked up from the six-sided console he had been studying and spied a readout on the screen that took up one whole side of the control chamber.

"The cloister bell," he said, "what the fuck?

He operated a series of controls on the console and the screen displayed a rapidly scrolling series of characters in an alphabet alien to him. He operated another control and the characters scrolling across the screen changed to recognizable text.

"Maria isn't gonna like this detour," he thought.

He set coordinates and the craft's course through the time vortex altered. Scrolling text on a panel set into the console showed course, relative speed, and estimated time of arrival.

"At least I've got some time to prepare and to tell Maria what's going on."

a door set into the wall of the control chamber slid back, admitting a short, full-figured woman with blond hair, blue eyes, and a face Mark Rimer would have recognized immediately as the face of both marie vannay-Andris-Marril-Davis and Chezarina, but for all her resemblance to the goddess Stephen Deschain had fallen instantly in love with, this woman was in a human, or formerly human body.

"What's the cloister bell's problem, James?" she asked.

"We're changing course," James replied, "we've been called to a world called Miria, in the first and oldest of all dimensions. There are problems there, just like there are almost everywhere else, but we've got what can fix the ones on Miria. As for all the other fuckups currently going on, I don't know."

The vortex through which James's craft traveled was, at the same time, dark and light, a paradox, but as James himself was known to say, "When you get into complicated shit like this, explanations go out the window." Time outside the craft was relative, as was time inside. The craft itself, in its vortex travel mode, resembled a dull gray box, but when at rest, it could take the shape of anything in the universe, effectively concealing itself. James had begun working on it during his time with a secret organization on a particular layer of Earth's dimensional axis. at first, it had only been a hobby of his, but as time had gone on, it had become what it now was, a craft to rival the Tardises of Gallifrey, a craft larger on the inside than the outside, a craft capable of traveling to any planet in the universe and any date in that planet's history. It could also travel between dimensional layers or levels, something the Gallifreyan Tardises could only do in emergencies, so had it been any surprise that the signal beamed from Miria had been especially targeted at the only craft in the multiverse, save two, whose occupants could have responded?

"The one who called us to Miria," James began, "is known as Sister Jenna. She also mentioned someone called Yuon, with whom we're also going to be dealing. The Tardis data bank has a bit of information about that world and its dominant life form, primarily dealing with various linguistic similarities between the Mirian language and Old High Gallifreyan, with certain changes concerning forms of address."

"So, why are they in need of our help?" Maria asked.

"Two people are in desperate need of Lazarus," James explained, "both of them were exposed to a genetically engineered virus known as X, but their current injuries are so severe that without Lazarus, they'll die before another day goes by."

"And since we're the only ones with the Lazarus Virus..." Maria began.

"We've been drafted," James finished for her, "but what they need isn't just normal Lazarus. I've been experimenting with samples of the T Virus brought back from Dimension Four earth and have found that rather than rendering the recipients of Lazarus hopelessly mutated, the addition of T actually strengthens their resistance to all types of injuries, no matter how severe."

"How will X react to your new compound?" Maria asked.

"That's the one question I don't have an answer for," James replied.

"And why are you activating the communication array?" Maria inquired.

"We've also got to make contact with the people you located in Dimension Four," James explained, "they're needed too. I don't know everything that's going on in the wider multiverse, but whatever it is, it's big. We're gonna need all the help we can possibly get, or everything ends."

Mark floated in nothingness. it was a void blacker than the darkest night he had ever experienced. He sensed a vast presence all around him, but it was not evil. it was the same presence he had sensed in his mind before...

"Memory is relative. Some are true, some are false, and some are simply well hidden."

Who had said that?

"Your ka is bound up with the fate of this world, of many worlds."

He reached for the memory, but it eluded him.

"Soft, Gunslinger, soft."

It was Stephen's voice.

"Seek not too hard for the answer. Mayhap it will come to you when you least expect it."

Mark relaxed and allowed his mind to drift. He saw, behind his eyes, Yuon's pool and the crystal that stood near it, saw himself reaching for it, touching it, and then...

"soft, Gunslinger," Stephen's voice again.

Then he had been here, wherever here was.

"It is the darkness of buried truths."

The voice of the crystal. Now he remembered.

"Such darkness is deep, but not impenetrable. The truths will come to light. Seek and find."

"Where the hell do I look?" he asked, not expecting an answer, but to his surprise, one came.

"Seek within, mark Rimer, Son of John, Ka-mate of Alison, Gunslinger of many worlds."

"Within me?" Mark asked.

"The past is locked," came the answer, "you hold the key. Seek and find."

"But where to start looking," mark wondered.

Alison stirred in her sleep, somehow sensing what was happening to Mark. She heard the voice of the crystal, saw the darkness in which Mark floated, and reached for him. Her hand seemed to touch his, his presence filled her mind. In another moment, she was in the dark with him. She took his hand and they floated, together, to whatever awaited in the infinity that surrounded them.

As Mark and Alison were traversing the darkness of buried truths, Yuon and Jenna sat in the pavilion, waiting for an answer to Jenna's signal. Of a sudden, there came a sound from the direction of the entrance to Yuon's gardens, a wheezing, groaning sound.

James Franklin stepped from his Tardis, accompanied by Maria. They approached Yuon's pool, not noticing Mark Rimer's sleeping form, and stopped outside the pavilion.

"I think we're about to meet the person who called us here," James said to Maria as Yuon and Jenna exited the pavilion and came toward them.

"You have a situation, Yuon'Lia?" James asked, putting to use the knowledge he had gleaned from the Tardis data bank concerning proper forms of address on Miria.

"We have a situation." Yuon explained what had happened, giving the details James hadn't already received from Jenna in the original communication he had received whilst in vortex.

James thought about it for a moment and said, "X's reaction will be unpredictable. I haven't tried mixing the three before. I have had success in mixing Lazarus and T, but x on the other hand, that's an unknown quantity. I only wish I had a raw sample of the stuff to study."

"Can we give it a chance?" Jenna inquired.

"Yes, I believe we can," James said after an additional moment's thought. "Maria here has contacts in Four. Three of them, in fact. She first became aware of them whilst testing a piece of equipment I recently fitted into the Tardis systems. Since then, she's been keeping tabs on their progress. I've discovered something as well. Five and Four are coming together. If you can aid Four, your people will be allowed in unmolested, as their arrival won't be noticed."

"Wouldn't they be unmolested anyway?" Yuon asked.

"Pretty much," James replied, "unless Umbrella's security has enough time on their hands to go searching all over the planet for a few people who just happened to have gated in from here, but outside, there are dangerous times, and if we're not careful ..."

"We can send people to Four. Will your contact be there?" Yuon asked.

"Yes," Maria contributed, "all I need do is send one more communication, and they'll be appraised of the situation."

"Now," James said, "I want you, Jenna, to take these." He held out several objects that looked somewhat like silver pens and several vials filled with a clear liquid.

"And how will I use them?" Jenna asked, studying the pen-like tools.

"There's a button on the one end," James said, "once you fill them, which you do by simply attaching them to the vials and pushing the button, you place the end without the button an inch or two from the patient's skin and push the button. The pressure spray will release a fine mist, one fine enough to penetrate the pores of the skin."

He then turned to Yuon.

"I can give you the coordinates you need to gate your people in without notice, if you give me those I need to locate a particular person on Dimension Four Earth whose life is in extreme danger. Whatever happens, he mustn't die, as his death would upset the cosmic balance so badly that we wouldn't have to wait for the Crimson king's breakers to finish their job."

After exchanging coordinates, James and Maria reentered the Tardis, which dematerialized.

Once again in the control chamber, James turned to Maria.

"Something's on your mind, isn't it?" he asked, "did it have anything to do with the fact that Yuon looked more than a little like a bird?"

"No," laughed Maria, "after everything I've seen throughout my life, Yuon was just another non-human to me."

"Then what is it?" James asked gently.

"When are we?" Maria asked.

"According to the time indicator," James replied, "it's the Earth year 2016. I've been doing a little research and have discovered that at least two layers of Earth's dimensional axis are about to collide. When that happens, I intend to be there, but it's not for a while yet."

"What are you planning on doing now?" Maria asked.

"In addition to the fact that they needed Lazarus, the message I got before said that one of them was infected with the plague of mortality," James said, "they even think they know where and when the infection took place."

"So what are you going to do about it?" Maria asked.

"After we make a few more stops," James answered, "I'm going back there with some diving gear and finding the thing that lives in Yuon's pool. If I can get a tissue sample from it, I may be able to find an anti virus."

"Nobody has ever been able to analyze the Plague of Mortality safely," Maria said worriedly.

"I've taken every possible precaution," James reassured, "I'll be wearing an environmental suit while I'm working. Furthermore, the lab complex will be sealed, and if anything goes wrong, I can teleport out without bringing any of the virus with me."

"But can you teleport quickly enough?" Maria asked, concern evident in her voice.

"The teleport will be set on automatic," James replied, "and it'll be set to get me out if the slightest change comes over the monitoring equipment I'm gonna set up in there."

Several hours later, as far as those on Miria were concerned, James's Tardis rematerialized. James emerged alone this time, carrying what looked like a futuristic version of a diver's wetsuit and oxygen tank, which he donned, and after making certain he had everything he needed, he made his way to the pool and lowered himself into the water.

He allowed himself to float slowly down, reaching depths no other man had ever reached, till suddenly, he saw the remains of something that appeared to have exploded in the water. He saw tentacles hanging limply, some still attached to the partially obliterated creature, some floating freely. He carefully took samples, both of the undamaged bluish tissue and of the red infected matter he found floating among the tentacles. He then returned to the surface, directed a teleport beam at the pool, effectively removing the remains of the creature from it and purging the water of the infection, reentered his Tardis, and after removing the diving suit and donning a belt-like device that projected an energy barrier between him and the rest of the universe, creating its own artificial environment within the field, entered the Tardis's laboratory complex and began attempting to isolate the virus contained in the infected cells, all the while hoping he wasn't already too late.

"This is a time machine, stupid," he chided himself, "you put it in time suspend mode after coming back in. As far as the planet out there is concerned, you just walked in through the doors."

after a short time, at least for those on Miria, had passed, James exited the Tardis and entered the pavilion. He was directed to where Iyana lay.

"I hope this works," he thought as he aimed a pressure spray at the sleeping Miriana's arm and released a mist that contained a combination of Lazarus, X, T, and the Mortality Anti Virus. After doing this, he returned to the Tardis and once again left Miria.

Alex suddenly deteriorated so rapidly that one could swear that even with Jenna's work, he was dead. The radiation flared up stronger than before. It was like an internal battle ground, and it was so strong that Alex woke from Jenna's deepest sleep, incoherent and babbling, his fever climbing steadily past 104.

"Are you sure this was a good idea?" asked Yuon worriedly.

Jenna looked at her. "Oh Gods, Yuon ... I certainly hope so," she answered.

At the same time as this conversation was occurring, Mark awoke, looked about, and made his way to the pavilion.

"Did I miss anything?" he asked.

"Not very much, dear," Alison answered, 'some guy just showed up and gave Jenna and Yuon something he said would help Alex and Marie. They also gave it to me."

"What did it do," Mark asked.

"Not much," Alison answered, "it just healed my arm."

"Healed your arm?" Mark asked.

"Yeah," Alison answered, "all at once."

"You act like that sort of thing goes on all the time," Mark laughed.

"Considering everything that's gone on since we moved to castle Rock, nothing surprises me any more," Alison said with a smile.

"Do you regret coming to Castle Rock with me?" Mark asked.

"No!" Alison exclaimed, "never!"

"I was just worried," Mark said.

"Why," Alison asked.

"Because a lot of people would have preferred for their lives to not be changed so radically," answered Mark.

"I wouldn't trade any of the times we've had," Alison said, taking Mark's hand and kissing it.

"Neither would I," Mark replied, a smile crossing his face.

As Mark fell off to sleep, his mind floated free, soaring back to earth. This time, rather than simply floating freely as a disembodied observer, he felt his mind merge with that of another, as had Marie's and Iyana's before him. The word "Resistance" chimed in his mind, particularly concerning the one whose thoughts and experiences he was sharing. And he knew that he was being shown this for a reason. He also felt Alison with him, merged with him, witnessing all with him.

Like a ghost slipping through the shadows, the figure swooped down from the small grating in the ceiling and landed safely on the hard linoleum floor of the supermarket.

He scoped around with a catlike stare before moving stealthily down the aisle. There was one or two of them on the other side of a line of shelves, he had seen them when he dropped in, and he hoped they hadn't spotted him yet.

He bolted down toward the frozen foods section.

Before most of them left or died, Billy and some other survivors had set up a diesel powered generator to prevent the food in the freezers from spoiling. He kept it regularly filled with fuel acquired from a local gas station. Neither the food nor the fuel would last forever though, and Billy knew that sometime in the not too distant future he was going to be forced to move on. He wished he didn't have to though, this place held a lot of memories for him.

He began loading groceries from the freezers into his backpack. He swooped the barrel of his assault rifle around, checking up and down the aisle, searching like a bloodhound for a target but thankfully nothing moved.

He forced as many groceries as possible into the rucksack, shopping after doomsday was not the safest of practices (It wasn't very safe even before the fall of civilisation) and Billy preferred to stockpile food rather than have to make too many trips into dangerous territory. He pushed a bag of frozen peas as hard as possible into the sack so it would fit; he tugged on the zip and just managed to pull it shut with the huge load inside. He had enough food for him to survive on for a week, now he just had to get out of the supermarket. The rope from which he had descended into the shop was a few dozen metres away; he heard shuffling noises echoing from directions.

"Shit!" he mumbled to himself "There's more of them than I thought!"

He stopped moving toward the rope and crouched down, flicking the safety switch on his rifle to 'off' and clicking it into full automatic mode, that way he could just hold down the trigger and mow them down, just fire and forget.

Then, the first corpse came staggering around a junction in the aisles. It was decaying slightly around the face and Billy caught a glimpse of a small colony of maggots chewing on its left eyelid.

On sight of the human, it drew back its head and wailed an awful, banshee-like scream that swept throughout the entire building. It was answered by several dozen similar calls from all across the inside of the shop as the other zombies swivelled on their weak legs and staggered clumsily in the direction of their prey.

Billy's rifle crackled as it released round after round into the first ghoul, sending it flying backwards into the liquor shelves in a rain of blood, bullets and exploding beer cans. The zombie was still moving as it crashed to the floor, it scrabbled around at the linoleum and tried to drag itself in Billy's direction. Aiming down the barrel of his rifle Billy squeezed off a single round into the head of the ghoul blasting its face all over the already bloodstained floor.

Billy relaxed and wiped his forehead with the back of his hand. But as he hung his rifle round his shoulder, he was alerted by a shuffling sound from behind him. He spun around to see a group of around ten flesh-eaters marching blankly toward him.

Time to get the hell out.

On turning toward his escape route, however, he discovered a similar sight. About twenty undead filled the space between the escape rope and Billy. He new there was only one way out now.

He charged screaming down the aisle with his gun blazing at the shuffling corpses. The creatures wailed with anger, fear and the insatiable hunger that haunted their half-dead minds as he launched himself at them. Bullets sliced through torsos, crania and various limbs sending small chunks of red material spattering around like slush. Some were blasted backwards onto the floor, others staggered away in an attempt to escape while others danced back and forth as the gunfire ripped them apart.

Billy decided he could make it now. He waded quickly through the gruesome piles of flesh that littered the floor.

His heart almost dived out of his mouth when the arm of a small boy reached out from the bloody pile and grabbed his leg. Billy screamed as the undead child clawed carnivorously at his trouser leg. He raised his weapon but found he could not bear to pull the trigger on the child. He cursed to himself.

Kicking the boy's arm aside, he bombed down the aisle at top speed. The zombies behind him were very close now, their arms outstretched towards him, moaning with inhuman, ravenous hunger. He hated to look at them, he was always afraid he would see someone he had once known shuffling along among the hordes of flesh-eaters.

He grabbed the rope and hugged it like a lifeline. Billy heaved himself up as fast as was humanly possible, shimmying hurriedly away from death.

A forest of arms reached upwards, clawing the air, trying mindlessly to grab at their human prey that was already far out of reach.

I've made it again, he thought as he pulled himself from the grating and out onto the rooftop; another week's food shopping successfully completed.

He had enough supplies in the bag to last seven or eight days.

He was happy. Not happy in a grand, joyous sense, but at the most basic and simple level. He knew he would probably live for at least another week.

He strolled leisurely toward the long wooden plank they had set up several months before. It acted as a bridge between the roof of the supermarket and the third level of a dilapidated four-story tenement building that he now called home. It saved him from having to use the dangerous city streets that were infested with the undead. Even now as he looked up and down the road from the elevated view of his makeshift bridge twenty feet above the streets, he reckoned he could see at least a hundred zombies trudging mechanically through the city.

If an observer from a previous age had glanced briefly upon the scene, it would have seemed at first like an ordinary day in the city. Groups of people walking up and down the sidewalks, barging past one-another and going about their daily business. Only when they looked closer would they notice that something was amiss. The lack of traffic, the bullet holed buildings, the dried bloodstains that covered anywhere the rain would not reach, the rotting pedestrians that staggered about covered in blood, the chilling cries that rose from across the city from time-to-time.

The screams of the dead were the worst of all. Billy would lie in bed at night reflecting on the gruesome events of the past year, listening to the occasional cries and moans from the creatures and wonder if tonight would be the night they broke through the barricaded doors and windows, would tonight be his last night as a human.

He jumped down into the window, which served as an entrance to his home. Slamming the shutter closed he turned into the dimly lit dining room, it was 4pm, too early to eat. He decided to listen to the radio for an hour, perhaps today would be his lucky day, he might pick up a broadcast.

Billy booted a waste-paper basket angrily into the kitchen. Why was he lying to himself? He hadn't picked up a radio broadcast in over six months.

The last station went down very suddenly, it was only possible to receive it at night and even then it had been pretty faint. While the station was on the air, all communications networks went down, making it impossible to use telephones, e-mail and Internet to receive information; the station became a faint link to the crumbling civilisation. The people at the station had become pretty crazy towards the end, babbling religious junk about punishment from God, the coming of Armageddon and the rising of Satan. One night they were on the air spouting their usual nonsense and playing the occasional country and western song, then the next they were gone. They had either left or been killed sometime during that day. That was the end of any outside contact.

He moved into the lounge of the apartment and switched on the radio. He was greeted with the usual, fuzzy, unwelcoming crackle of static. No surprises there, he thought mournfully to himself. Undeterred, he hit the scan button and the set began to skip through all the possible frequencies and all the wavelengths but, as usual nothing. There was nobody out there transmitting, there hadn't been for months. Civilisation had been crushed under the heels of dead men.

A freezing hot rush of anger and grief washed through Billy. For the first time since the dead had first walked, the survival instincts that had kept him alive and sane fell from his control. For the first time in years he began to cry.

"How could we have let this happen!" He screamed hysterically at the cracked ceiling "They won...the bastards won...damn them! DAMN THE FUCKERS!"

Out in the streets the undead heard the human's ranting; faint signs of excitement registered on their pale, bloodless faces. The ghouls glanced up and down the streets searching for the source of the voice. They squinted up alleyways and in shop windows. A dead soldier, still wearing his combat gear and carrying a rifle, moaned at the sky, his finger repeatedly pulling the trigger on his weapon which had long since run out of ammo. A zombie child of about five years old, wearing a bullet-ripped Spiderman t-shirt, searched ravenously for the human, saliva and bacterial corruption oozing from its mouth.

Billy fell back into a recliner, exhausted from his outburst. His eyes closed tightly and he began to shake his head back and forth as if trying to wake from a nightmare.

He let out a childlike whimper and he wished he had someone to cry to. His nightmare was not the armies of the dead, or the constant danger. His nightmare was the loneliness, the solitude.

Sadly, mournfully, he cast his mind's eye back to the beginning of the end...

The sky overhead was turning grey, towering walls of thunderclouds were moving in, a storm was brewing on the horizon. Twenty-three-year-old police officer Billy Lambert rested his M16 over the trunk of a cop cruiser, the barrel aimed expectantly at the distance. His blond hair was messed up and his normally bright green eyes were dreary from lack of sleep, his team had been trying to help control the spread of the 'cannibal creatures' for several days now and he'd only been able to rest for a few hours during that whole time.

Around him dozens of other cops swarmed, loading weapons, shouting instructions and taking aim. Confusion was tearing apart the force, nobody new what to believe. Reports of cannibalism, mass murder and people literally tearing one another apart had begun over a week ago and the latest and most incredible revelation - the reanimation of dead human beings - had finally begun to topple the sanity of the public.

Billy knew where the targets were coming from, he knew his orders, he knew what the targets were...but how the hell was this happening? He hadn't been able to see any TV since the beginning of the crisis but he had heard that there were several theories, none of which answered every question satisfactorily.

Sergeant Willis climbed on top of one of the cruisers. He was a very small man who somehow did not seem to fit his high position within the force, he needed to climb up on the car to draw the attention of the confused mass of dark blue uniforms, automatic weapons and shiny badges. He raised a megaphone to his lips.

"Listen up people!" he bellowed in a voice that was surprisingly powerful for a five foot tall near midget "I have received our orders from Emergency Control, so pay attention."

The crowd listened intently, eager to find out what was going to happen.

"As you may have heard, contact had been lost between Control and several cities around the world..."

A series of shocked mutterings rose from the crowd of cops. Daniel Yeoh, Billy's partner, an Asian American with an itchy trigger finger, turned to Billy.

"You know, he's right," he said quietly "I saw a news broadcast before we left, they wiped out Boston and Atlanta! This is some deep shit we're in."

Willis continued:

"As you know, all civilians have been evacuated from this part of the city and a state of marshal law is in effect across the state of New York. Our orders are to exterminate as many of those things as possible, they are being lured here as we speak."

Most of the officers were still confused and uneasy; some had begun to shake like leaves in the wind. A few of them started crying.

Billy began his head in despair and disbelief.

"Lured here? How?" asked Natascha Reed, a young female officer who was somehow keeping a level head throughout it all.

Willis smiled at the young brunette. Billy wasn't sure whether it was a dirty leer or an amused grin, but he assumed it was the former, as he never trusted anybody under five feet tall.

"You'll see soon enough," said Willis.

Reed moved to where Billy and Daniel crouched behind their cruiser. Natascha Reed was a very attractive young woman, she had light blue eyes and long brown hair. And she was so damn laid back, she seemed to be taking this whole thing in her stride.

Suddenly, everything went silent.

A man with half an arm and a huge shotgun wound in his chest was strolling peacefully down the street toward them.

"Holy-shit-goddammit," someone murmured as a single word.

The corpse swivelled its head toward them and let out a low moan as it speeded up and staggered like a drunken sprinter in their direction.

"Shearer, Winters...fire!" growled Willis.

Almost before he had finished speaking two officers began blasting away with their M16s. Bullets thudded into what remained of the zombie's torso launching it backward onto the street, spraying the asphalt red.

Everyone stared at the gruesome red spectacle lying in the roadway. Silent tension began to pull on the nerves of the officers, all were holding their guns at the ready. They were aiming down the empty, deserted street, some pointed their weapons nervously at the semi-pureed body that lay like a smashed mannequin.

Somehow, the unspeakable mush began to move again, slowly, painfully trying to heave itself up onto what were left of its legs. Instantly it was devastated by a deafening scream of bullets as every cop fired simultaneously. The slugs pounded into it, shattering its body into an unrecognisable pulp and blasting its brains ten feet down the road.

It didn't get back up.

The gunfire stopped, the sound of bullet clips being reloaded clicked around the group. Nobody moved, nobody spoke. The loudest sound was Hunter, a rookie cop, hyperventilating. His face had contorted into a shocked snarl. His eyes had changed, they had the look of a war veteran... a haunted look. A sound of a single diesel engine growled in the distance followed by several distant moans that caused the hair on Billy's neck to stand on end. Then, the noise came. An unearthly noise, like an army of demons charging the gates of hell. It was the march of the dead.

The cruiser radios fizzed into life.

"This is unit one-lemur-one-niner, the bait has been taken," crackled the serious voice from the other end "There's more than expected, be ready. ETA is one minute."

Nobody moved. All guns aiming toward the junction ahead, untrusting, like the road itself would attack them at any second. The confusion that was swirling within Billy's mind condensed itself into one single, basic question; one that he knew nobody here could answer: What is happening?

Simultaneously, all the cops' hearts hammered against their rib cages as a police van crawled around the corner at 20 kilometres per hour. The bait was two officers sitting in the open back compartment of the van.

Then, everybody from Willis to Hunter screamed. Rushing after the bait, staggering, bleeding, moaning, and salivating like ravenous beasts. It was the most horrific, chilling sight imaginable. Upwards of fifty dead bodies were chasing the truck. Some looked like normal people and were totally untouched, some were rotten and looked like they had been dead for weeks, some looked like they had been torn apart and others had clearly been partially eaten. Among them, some undead children walked, their eyes glared and their faces showed vicious, hungry snarls.

"I don't suppose anybody brought along any thermonuclear weapons?" someone murmured quietly in a pathetic attempt at dark humour, almost drowned out by the wails of the dead.

"Don't fire 'till the truck passes..." ordered Willis.

The dead were closer now, they seemed to have spotted the small army of police and were moving directly in their direction.

The truck speeded up and tore past. A thunder of gunfire exploded from the group. Billy roared a sound that was reminiscent of a primal war cry as clouds of blood, flesh and bone erupted from the army of zombies. Bullets and buckshot tore through limbs, torsos and skulls. Some fell, motionless to the street, most kept moving. They showed no fear, no anger, no mercy as they continued to charge the police even under the hail of fire. The only driving impulse in their minds an unending, undying, undead hunger. They didn't care about the bullets that were tearing their already mauled bodies to smithereens, they just wanted to get at the humans, to kill and to feast. They were the only thoughts that permeated their dull minds.

They were bearing down on the police now. They had already surrounded the first cruiser, an officer screamed as a corpse stumbled to its knees and sunk its teeth into his hip and tore a chunk away like someone biting a chicken leg. His body jerked and his finger jolted the trigger of his auto-shotgun and giving his partner, who was trying to pound the creature with his rifle butt, the full barrel in the chest.

The screams and cries of the humans now intermingled with the drones and squeals of the dead, the sounds mixing in an obscene melody.

"Don't give up!" someone cried as several cops tore off down the street. Panic gripped the group. A female officer screamed madly into her radio, the zombies clawed at her over the trunk of a car. "Backup, requesting...urrrg," she gurgled one of the dead reached over, grasped her throat and yanked it out of her neck bare handed. Several creatures moved in on her body to feed, the one that had killed her strolled off, gnawing and licking the blood from the tough lump of cartilage it held in its hand.

Lambert, Yeoh and Reed hunched behind their cruiser, their ammo depleted, as was everybody else's. The undead were now being fought hand-to-hand by the few cops who were still remaining. Nightsticks cut the air, pounding the creatures, smashing skulls and limbs, riot shields held the creatures away. Someone set off a tear gas canister, the vapour making no impression on the dead but causing the unprotected living to stagger coughing into the clutches of their rotting adversaries.

"We gotta...we gotta get away," wheezed Yeoh, struggling to pull on his gas mask.

An undead monster, so badly blasted apart it could barely move, crawled painfully under the cruiser, trying with an inhuman determination to grasp Billy's belt. Billy screamed and recoiled.

"Let's move our asses then!" shouted Billy with revulsion through his gas mask.

Like antelope being hunted by a lion, the trio ran screaming, almost panicking, dodging a sizeable group of lunging ghouls to make their escape.

"Wait up," cried a familiar voice from behind them. It was Willis, running from his cover to join them.

Looking back towards the carnage, Billy witnessed in muted horror, the creatures overturn a police cruiser, trapping Winters beneath it screaming for help. A petrol tank exploded, turning humans and zombies into squealing humanoid fireballs that ran about frantically like screaming meteors.

The group powered down a dark, shadowy back alley. Ahead was another street, lined with old, crumbling tenement buildings. There too, shuffling along the road were groups of corpses, the walking dead.

"There's no way out," cried Willis "It's everywhere...they're everywhere. We've gotta..we gotta get away...we..."

"Shut the fuck up!" shouted Yeoh, his face almost in Willis', his teeth gritted angrily, "Stop panicking you son-of-a-bitch!"

Willis looked shocked, nobody had ever spoken to him like that on all his years on the force. He wanted to shout back but the look in Yeoh's eyes made him think twice, he had the look of a crazy man.

Yeoh was trying to prevent himself from laughing and crying all at once. The surprised look on Willis' face was extremely satisfying, it was also hilarious. Neither of them noticed the ten zombies shuffling towards them, arms outstretched, reaching for their prey.

"Look out!" screamed Reed.

Willis and Yeoh jerked with shock as the dead lunged at them, blood-spattered jaws flexing horrifically. In a cool, swift motion, Billy reached down and pulled Willis' unused .44 Magnum from its holster and began firing. The first bullet caused one of the creature's head to disappear in a puff of red smoke and wet chunks of grey gunge. The second and third bullets landed in the chest of one, doing horrendous damage. It fell to the ground, and started crawling.

"The door!" shouted Reed as she charged at the rear exit door of a shop that backed onto the alley. Willis, Yeoh and Lambert turned and followed.

"It's locked, it's locked!" she screamed, tugging at the rusty steel handle. The dead moved forward relentlessly, reaching for them, their hands contorted into talons.

Billy spun, pointing the gun in direction of the door.

"Get clear," he called, aiming down the barrel of the Magnum.

He jumped backwards a few steps towards the lunging demons. The gun cracked and the lock on the door exploded, blowing shards of wood and metal in all directions and throwing the door open.

The humans hit the door, running at full throttle, stretching out their arms to pull themselves inside to safety.

Yeoh slammed the door shut behind them and pushed all his weight down on it to hold it shut as the zombies battered it with all their insatiable fury.

A bloody, gnawed arm pushed through the hole the gun had torn, flailing blindly around. Reed pounded her nightstick down upon the limb, concentrating all her hatred for it onto one point on its arm. There was dry snapping sound and it pulled itself back out the door. Billy and Willis grabbed several huge boxes, heaved them toward the door and blocked it off.

Billy scoped the room they had entered. It was dank and smelled musty, there were empty boxes and crates of various sizes lining the walls and cluttering the floor. A single bare, forty-watt light bulb hung shamefully from the middle of the grey ceiling, barely illuminating the moist, bare brick walls. There were two other doors in the room, one was a cheap, wooden slatted door, the other was a huge, rusty steel one with a heavy lock.

Unexpectedly, an unfamiliar gravely voice echoed through the dimly lit room like the growl of a guard dog moving in on a trespasser.

"Stupid bastards, you bust 'da goddamn door," it snarled "They can 'git in here now!"

Lambert spun and saw the source of the voice. An overweight middle-aged male emerged cautiously from behind a stack of crates. A neurotic looking businessman type wearing a torn and ragged suit wielded a pistol, and a black teenager packing an UZI 9mm flanked him. "Everyone's supposed to be evacuated," said Reed "Why the hell are you here? And were did you get those weapons?"

The businessman and the kid laughed.

"You're standing in back of a gun store," grinned the boy "We're better off in here, we got a whole damn arsenal in this store. The doors are secure, at least they were 'till you arrived!"

Willis and Reed moved through into the front of the store followed by Billy as Yeoh gave their new acquaintances the third degree. The protective bar blocking off the gun rack lay hanging ajar, most of the weapons had been taken. The Plexiglas display cases had been opened; the ammo and small arms that were contained within had been snatched. They had been opened with a key; apparently, the fat guy through the back-shop seemed to be the owner of this joint.

Moving to the display window at the front of the store, Reed inspected the protective gate that had been pulled over the outside. It was designed to keep out raiders; it would easily keep the weak, dull creatures at bay. Turning her head and looking down the street through the gate, she could see where the team had been overpowered. Most of the cars were on fire and blood stained everything. Some of the police lights were still flashing bright electric-blue, the zombies stared at them with dumbfounded wonder.

Something tapped the other end of the window. Natascha turned toward it and screamed. Outside, staring in at the humans, were two zombies in police uniform. Reed recognised them immediately as Shearer and Wisconsky, their bodies had been gnawed and torn at. They fixed their eyes on her in a gaze that felt like an accusation. She had just lost her level-headedness.

Yeoh and the others rushed through into the front of the store at the sound of Nat's scream, grasping their weapons ready for a fight. Then Yeoh saw what Reed had seen and felt waves of nausea and sadness sweep over him simultaneously. His face went the same colour as the cheap green carpet and he spewed. Billy tried to close his eyes and look away but found he was transfixed on the gruesome spectacle with shock and macabre curiosity. Willis began to cry.

The three others looked unfazed, save for the kid who was staring, disgusted at the little puddle of puke that was drying on the carpet.

"Anyone who dies turns into one of them," said the fat man flatly "It doesn't matter how they die; if their brain is intact then they come back."

Yeoh spat, trying to banish the lingering taste of vomit from his mouth.

"Is there anyone else... left alive here?" he wheezed, close to hyperventilating.

"Upstairs," answered the man in the suit "There's three levels above us. We're living there just now, have been since everyone was supposedly evacuated, we figured we're better off defending ourselves without the goddamn cops and army sticking their noses in. The more people there are, the more zombies will turn up. Emergency Control are useless, they can't cope with this."

"Why do you say that?" asked the still-shocked Natascha "You could have been safely out of the city by now and under the protection of trained soldiers."

"Hah!" spat the kid "You're training didn't help much out there, did it?"

A sudden hammering sound shuddered through the store. Something was thumping and scratching rabidly at the back door, trying desperately to gain entry. Willis looked through into the back shop, they were forcing the door open from the outside, the crates they had piled in front of the door were giving way.

"They're gonna get in here!" squealed Willis like a child.

Mike, the overweight owner of the store, glared at the cops with a stare that ate into them.

"If we get eaten, it's your fault! Damn pigs," he growled, narrowing his eyes and pointing a beefy sausage of a finger at them accusingly.

"Up yours, man," hissed Yeoh "If we hadn't bust in here we'd be dead, shufflin' around out there right now!"

Billy cut in, trying to stop a conflict.

"Look, we all gotta stick together. If we're going to survive we can't turn against each other. Let's grab what we can and get upstairs!"

Through back, the crates were pushing outward, inch by inch, the door was being forced ajar. One of the creatures' arms slipped around the gap and began tugging weakly on one of the boxes.

Grabbing ammo for their assault rifles; Billy, Daniel and Natascha, followed by Willis, hurried into the back shop where the other three survivors had opened the heavy steel door. As they passed through the room, the top crate was yanked off, crashing down onto Willis sending him sprawling to the deck. The ghouls began to force their way into the building, crawling around the edge of the door and grabbing Willis by the legs. He gave a scream and began swinging insanely with his nightstick.

Billy watched in revulsion as the zombies began to tear at the flesh of Willis' legs. He wanted to rush over to the rescue but more of the things were moving into the room, jerking towards him robotically. "Help me...!" gurgled Willis as his body was torn into a blood-spattered flesh feast.

Shouldering his assault rife, Billy raised the Magnum. One bullet remained. He fired it into Willis' skull, blasting it into a reddish-grey pulp, the sound of the gunshot echoed like an exploding bomb in the dank room.

Billy slammed the steel door shut on the carnage and locked it. He was standing in a dark corridor with two doors, one led to a storage room, the other opened out onto a steep stairway. Reed sat calmly at the top of the steps, waiting for him.

"Is he dead?" she asked coolly.

"Yes, don't worry, I took care of him," he answered softly, pushing the empty Magnum behind his belt. Natascha nodded silently, she understood. Then she turned and disappeared into the apartment. Billy followed.

Mike's apartment was pleasant, if somewhat cheap looking. The bright though dated wallpaper gave the room an almost welcoming feel. A middle-aged woman, probably the gun store owner's wife, slouched in an armchair in the cluttered lounge, her head was leaning on her arm, watching at the TV in a silent stare.

An emergency network had taken over the station. The young newscaster looked tired and overworked, he was trying in vain to interview an elderly white bearded scientist with a strong southern accent.

"The people need answers," the presenter was shouting "What exactly is causing this phenomenon and can it be prevented."

"The only way to prevent reanimation is to burn the body or damage the brain so it can't be reactivated!" hissed the scientist angrily.

"You are deliberately avoiding the question, Dr Weir, what is causing this!"

"Listen dagnammit!..."

"No! You listen to me. I think you just don't wanna admit that you don't have a clue as to what's causing this."

Names of emergency stations began to scroll across the bottom of the screen. The nearest was almost fifty miles away, there was no need for one in an abandoned area.

"We have an idea what's causing it," said the scientist defensively. People behind the cameras also began to shout. The studio was turning into a zoo, the shouts of men and women building into a crescendo of noise.

"If you know then why don't you answer the goddamn question?"

The studio went quiet, waiting for Weir's answer.

"A NASA space probe returning from Venus was intentionally detonated when it was discovered to be irradiated with an unknown form of radiation..."

"Hah!," the presenter interrupted "That's old news, man! That was last month, and it was millions of miles away. How the hell could that cause it! This ain't some sorta science-fiction movie!"

"...Possibly causing an existing viral or bacteriological strain to mutate..."

Billy turned away from the TV set, disgusted. It had only started several days ago and already the people were turning on each other. The meltdown of civilisation had begun.

Moving to the window, Billy discovered he had a view of the whole street. He could see the carnage of the police roadblock, he stared in transfixed horror as the dead officers rose to their feet, one by one. And he watched as the storm came overhead, dousing the flames of the battle and washing the drying blood from the streets. The rain fell and nature carried on as normal while mankind was stamped out.

For five months the eleven survivors began to eke out a life among the walking dead of New York City. A successful expedition to the small supermarket across the street had secured the shop for the humans. They wiped out the zombies that inhabited it and locked the roll cages to prevent more from gaining entry. A long, solid plank of wood was stretched from the supermarket roof to the third-story of the tenement. A mechanic that lived with his wife on the top floor, even managed to rig a powerful enough generator to provide energy for the freezers in the supermarket in an attempt to keep the food fresh, occasional trips to a nearby gas station for diesel were not a problem. The ammo in the gun store's storeroom, if used sparingly, could last them for years.

The survivors had it made.

TV and radio channels were already beginning to go off the air. The stressed staff at the media stations, barricaded in their places of work, turned against one another instead of teaming together to stay on the air and fight the dead.

Remaining channels reported that most rescue stations had been wiped out, the National Guard had been unsuccessful in trying to reclaim Los Angeles and were now turning their forces toward NYC, cities were being overrun all over the world.

Across the planet, the remnants of humanity panicked and fought among themselves and died.

The group living in the tenements paid only a passive interest to the crumbling society, they were interested only in survival. They managed somehow, unlike the rest of the world, to avoid conflicting with one another, for down that road of conflict death was waiting with bared fangs. Instead they maintained peace and stuck together against the ever-present threat of the dead, trying to force their way into the tiny pocket of humanity that existed among a city of the dead.

Billy was sleeping when the news came. Death and blood and massacre haunted his dreams. In his sleep he saw his friends and family shuffling mechanically through the streets, doomed to wander the Earth for centuries searching for the rare delicacy of human flesh.

The horrific nightmare he was experiencing soared to its terrifying climax and Billy snapped awake, letting out a small scream. The world around him was hazy, surreal, he wasn't sure where he was. A voice came to him through his semi-conscious awakening.

"...Scientists have predicted that a reanimated corpse's life span may be well over 200 years due to the reduced decomposition rate..."

Lambert blinked trying to drag his mind into alertness. The voice was coming from a small portable TV set in the corner of the room. It was a spare room in the top flat of the tenement. Some mattresses were laid out on the floor, Billy was lying on one of them, he had been huddled in a foetal position under the sheets. Across the other side of the room, Natascha sat on the carpet, staring depressed at the TV.

"Welcome back to hell," she smiled at him as came fully awake. Billy nodded and smiled back, his hands dragging his messed up, strawberry blond hair into something resembling order.

"Good to be back," he said sarcastically. Suddenly the door swung open so fast it was nearly torn from its hinges. Instinctively, Billy grabbed his rifle which lay next to his pillow like a child's teddy bear. Danny Yeoh leaped into the room letting out a whoop of joy, giving Billy such a shock he nearly shot the man.

"Jesus, you scared the shit out of me!" Billy hissed through his teeth, genuinely angry.

He was, unknowingly, still pointing his gun at his friend. Daniel caught the look in Billy's eye and calmed down, he was still grinning from ear to ear.

"Turn on the radio," said Yeoh excitedly "Tune to NYRN!"

"But that station went down months ago," said the still sleepy Lambert, a little confused.

"Yeah, the dead overran it but the army have just re-secured it for themselves," Yeoh was smiling with glee like a child on Christmas morning "The army are coming here...to the Bronx, they're securing the city!"

Billy stared at Daniel with surprise and joy, then he turned and looked at Natascha in the same way. Natascha and Billy both dived simultaneously for the radio that lay nestled next to the TV set. As Lambert's hands closed around the set, Reed snatched it away from him with a happy giggle.

"Gimme that..." laughed Lambert.

"Swivel on it, boy!" Natascha grinned, flipping Billy the finger.

Daniel chuckled whole-heartedly.

"Hey! You're insulting each other, next thing you know you'll be getting married," he laughed.

"Shut up," snapped Billy playfully at Daniel.

Natascha began to tune through the weird whistling static to find the radio station. A voice, crisp, clear and in perfect stereo cut through the whining noise.

Billy hit the TV off.

"...secured Central Park and much of Manhattan although very few survivors were rescued. Teams of the National Guard are moving into several other areas of New York, including Brooklyn and the Bronx..."

Billy frowned and rubbed his hand across his face. He was beginning to feel the first pangs of a very bad feeling in his stomach, like something evil was living there. Was getting rescued any better than their present situation?

"Listen guys," sighed Billy reluctantly to the excited faces of Reed and Yeoh "I dunno...maybe we're better off here on our own."

The others looked at him, surprised and shocked, the way they'd look at a drunken tramp that just uttered an obscenity about their mothers. Daniel looked almost concerned for Billy.

"What?" Natascha was close to shouting, trying to force some sense into Billy "What do you mean? That's the army out there, for Christ's sake! This could be our last chance, this isn't gonna end, not in our lifetime anyway. We gotta survive and the best way to do so is with as many guns and supplies as possible. The military have the means to survive for decades, for god's sake, and I plan to do so too!"

Leaning his head on his fist Billy stared at the floor.

"I just got a bad feeling about this, that's all," Billy said defensively, having been verbally shot down by Natascha.

Daniel laughed.

"You're always getting bad feelings," he chuckled "Remember the time when you had a bad feeling before we made that narcotics bust in the docks last January? And when your unit went in they blew up that crack shipment? You whole team got high and Davison had to go into rehab! You remember?"

"That's my point, Dan," said Billy sternly "When I get bad feelings there's usually a reason..."

Yeoh clamped his hands into fists with anger.

"Goddamn it, Billy!" he hissed, suddenly serious "I'm getting away from this dump the first chance I get, I wanna live, dammit! You must be crazy!"

Daniel was shouting now, the pent-up anger and fear of the past few weeks was being released suddenly onto Billy like floodwaters from a broken dam. He continued his outburst.

"We're gonna let the army know we're here, I'm getting out...if you don't wanna come, you can go jump in front of a fuckin' zombie."

"ENOUGH!" bellowed Reed at Yeoh, finally pissed off with him. Daniel's angry stare dropped to the floor, he walked from the room with a growling expression on his face and his head down, like a sulking child. He brushed violently past Julia, a teenage girl from the middle floor of the tenement, who had just arrived in the doorway to find out what was going on. Reed stared after him with disgust before turning back to Billy. "He is right you know, we can't stay here forever," she said softly, she motioned toward the direction Daniel had left "He seems to have his mind made up, guess I have too. Just leave Daniel alone for now, we can't afford any conflicts at the moment."

Billy shrugged, Julia turned and sullenly left the doorway.

"It's your choice," said Natascha "I hope you'll come with us."

"I'll come, I just thought...never mind."

"Get some more sleep," Natascha told him "You were up all night on watch, you look like death."

Billy stared at her.

"Sorry, bad choice of words," she apologised and went back to sit on the floor in front of the radio. Billy closed his eyes and lay back down on his makeshift bed. His mind was too full of anger and turmoil to fall asleep immediately, so he lay there for over an hour remembering his life before everything had ended. He felt like a different person now, those memories were of a past life that he knew he could never return to, a life that felt weird and surreal like a vivid but strange dream. The old world was gone, all that remained now was the Deadworld, the world that he was learning to survive in, the world that was now his own.

Eventually, his consciousness waned and he dropped back into his haunted sleep.

He awoke, hours later, to the faint sounds of distant combat. The sound of gunfire jolted him into awareness and he leapt up and grabbed his rifle and looked around, Natascha was not there. He stood still for a second, confused, for a moment he had thought the ghouls had broken into their hideout, but the battle sounded too far away to be within their stronghold. Rushing to the window, he saw two men running across the bridge toward the roof of the supermarket. It was Daniel and Mike, carrying rucksacks and weapons, they were getting out. The army were almost there.

"Here come the cavalry," whispered Billy dryly to himself.

The fear he had felt now mixed with a sense of excitement, this was it, their escape was now or never. Reed ran into the room looking a little scared.

"Let's go. Pack your stuff, we're leaving...now," she said "There's a rescue helicopter coming to pick us off the roof of the supermarket."

Billy grabbed the few spare clothes and belongings he had managed to obtain while hiding in the building. He stuffed them into his rucksack and shouldered his rifle. Leaving the room, he slapped himself in the face to knock the last wisps of sleep from his eyes, and to make himself believe he wasn't still dreaming, before moving out into the hall and leaping down the steps, two at a time, to the third floor.

The sounds of conflict were nearer now, they seemed to be emanating from very nearby. Billy's hand pulled his rifle into reach when the sound of gunfire cracking came to him from within the very walls of the building. He strode into the sitting room, used as access to the bridge, with his gun in hand.

James Hanson, the old hick that had lived on the top floor, was hanging from the window, firing his pistol out into the street in the direction of the gunfire. Reed was already there, watching intently.

"What's going on? What the hell are you shooting at?" asked Billy anxiously, he was frightened in case the old duffer had finally gone crazy and was blasting down the army in the streets as they moved to rescue them.

"Just givin' them military boys some backup, officer," he explained as he squeezed off another cross-eyed shot "Them dead things are givin 'em a damned hard time," he fired again "Did I ever tell you about when I was in the army, kid?" Billy disliked being called 'kid' and sure didn't want to hear Jamie's war stories right now. It was one thing boring people to death during peacetime, but when you're fighting a war right now it can mean the difference between life and death.

"Yes, you told me," shouted Billy over the sound of a gunshot, eager to shut James up.

Looking out into the already battle scarred street, Billy watched the soldiers fighting the dead. They moved stealthily and fought the creatures well, they had been fighting them for months and seemed to be able to get the upper hand, unlike his police unit. They moved into a zombie free area of the street, levelled their guns at the next area, blasted the zombies and moved on, dodging the remaining creatures skilfully, almost without effort. The surviving ghouls were left looking confused and dazed, wondering what hit them. The soldiers' faces were battle-weary, aged beyond their years by the horrors they had witnessed in the past few months, like 'Nam vets.

Across the makeshift bridge, Daniel, Mike and Will (the kid from the gun store) crouched with their weapons, watching the skies for the transport.

"Hey, Nat," said Billy, turning to Natascha "Can you go and make sure everybody is ready to leave?" Natascha nodded and Billy turned to James.

"You go too, I'll take over the sniper thing. Okay?"

James turned with a nod of his head and followed Natascha out of the room. Billy turned his gun toward the battle in the street. Staring down the barrel of the assault rifle and gritting his teeth he punched off a bullet at the head of a zombie in a policeman's uniform, he vaguely recognised the guy but didn't much care as the back of it's head opened into a bloody, fist-sized hole and it fell motionless to the street.

He swung the gun round, looking for more easy targets. A teenage ghoul wearing a 'No Fear' T-shirt lunged at an unsuspecting soldier who was looking the other way, two bullets seemed to make the creatures head magically disappear in an explosion of grey ooze and sent it soaring through the air. The soldier turned to Billy with a look of shock and relief, then he smiled and gave a small nod, which Lambert returned.

"Hey, sniper!" a voice called from below.

Looking down, he saw a lieutenant and some other soldiers crouching at the bottom of the building.

"The choppers are on the way. They'll lift you off the roof of the supermarket," he briefed "There's two of them cos the gunships'll only hold six passengers each. They'll be here any minute..."

"Hey!" Billy interrupted, staring down the street at a group of soldiers trying to bust in the gate of a hardware store "What are they doin'?"

"They say they heard someone in there..." the lieutenant began.

"There's no one alive in there!" Billy shouted.

Even from the third-floor Billy could see the eyes of the lieutenant widening with horror.

"Jesus Christ! Those things..." The military officer's hand reached for his communications radio but before he could warn anyone the gates of the store launched open and a small wave of zombies erupted through the broken picture windows of the store and launched themselves, arms reaching outward and jaws hanging open hungrily, at a small group of warriors standing nearby.

The zombies tore and ripped at the flesh and clothing of the soldiers. They began firing wildly, spontaneously as the creatures clawed and bit at them like rabid, growling, starving wolves.

Billy screamed. The situation was becoming very familiar, the creatures were, once again, getting the upper hand. As a ghoul sank its teeth, like a vampire, into the neck of a screaming soldier, the victim's hand clutched down on the trigger of his machine gun, spraying another team of warriors with a hail of death as they ran to the rescue.

"Shoot the bastards!" screamed the lieutenant into the radio, near hysterical.

Billy was already firing, as was Daniel on the other roof. Billy was crying now, a tear slithered down his cheek as he sniped at the creatures.

On seeing the panicking violence below, Mike jumped from his hiding place on the supermarket and ran as fast as his tree trunk legs would move him towards the stairway entrance to the supermarket.

"Where you goin' ya wimp!" Daniel shouted after him "You run out of chocolate or sumptin'?"

"Weapons...I hid a cache of weapons in the supermarket!" he called back as he wobbled his fat ass across the rooftop.

There were hundreds of zombies in the street now, attracted by the sounds of battle and the smell of blood. They outnumbered the humans and dragged them screaming to the ground and feasted. Some of the dead soldiers were already reviving, heaving their mangled bodies off the street, staggering among the dead and eating the living. Some of the dead men still carried their weapons, firing them randomly and sporadically, shooting their own kind as well as the humans.

"What's happening out there," said Natascha's voice.

Billy turned towards her. Everyone was there; Will's sister Julia and their mother, the mechanic and his wife, Mike's wife and Keith, the insurance salesman.

"Chaos is what's happenin'" said Billy tersely.

The voice of the lieutenant tore up to him over the blast of his own weapon.

"Get to the supermarket roof, dammit! We'll take care of this. Backup's here."

The group climbed out onto the bridge and began to move hurriedly, twenty feet above the battle, toward the roof. Below them, several Jeeps and a heavily armoured tank rode into the street like executioners, crushing zombies and blasting them with machine guns. A young troop tried desperately to tie a tourniquet around the mangled arm of his friend. The injured soldier was screaming as complete agony gripped his nerves, his young comrade was almost hysterical. Blood poured onto their combat gear from the open wounds, splashing them with red. Neither of them saw the creatures looming over them like grim reapers, bloodstained saliva drooling from their jaws, their eyes wide in a mad feeding frenzy. They dropped upon the soldiers suddenly, using their dead weight as a weapon against them. They began to feast on their screeching, squirming prey.

"BASTARDS!" screamed a jeep driver who was witnessing the horror, he turned and began screaming at his gunner, "The sons-of-bitches killed Traxler!"

Spinning the jeep in a u-turn, against the screams of his commanding officer over the radio, he rammed into the small tangle of flesh that squirmed in the street. There was a satisfying crunch as the Jeep mashed a ghoul's head into pulp under its wheel. Unexpectedly, a scarred hand wielding a brick flew up and struck the passenger window, shattering it into tiny lumps of glass that shot inward as glittering stars of reflected light from the sun. Two zombies fought each other wildly to claw their way through the tiny opening of the smashed window, one of the creatures was missing an eyeball. The driver could see the exposed muscular tissue moving in the socket as the good eye rolled and locked onto him like a gun sight. Screaming, the man raised his rifle and fired it, point-blank, into the open socket, a section of the back of the creatures skull blew away out the window. The driver turned to shoot the other ghoul but its head was too close, he couldn't get into a firing position.

"NOOOOO!" he shouted with all his might as the monster began to eat from his shoulder. His foot slammed down on the accelerator as his body convulsed with pain. The Jeep roared down the street, soldiers and zombies alike dived for cover as it ploughed down through them before skidding into the front protection gates of the supermarket just as Billy and his party reached the roof. The driver's screams still came from the crashed Jeep, the gunner in the back of the vehicle fired his machine gun uselessly into the air in his panic as the creatures crawled around to get him. Then somebody shot the crates of ammunition in the back of the truck...

KABOOOOOOOM! A phosphorescent fireball engulfed the truck, incinerating the driver, gunner and the creatures in one blast. The explosion blew away the protective gates of the supermarket and fried everything near the front of the store...Mike's dying scream could be heard briefly over the roar of flames. The zombies turned, moaning, panicking away from their only fear: fire.

Billy's group just stood watching, silent, aghast.

"I told you so," murmured Billy "I knew this was gonna turn bad!". Daniel glared at him, still shocked from the explosive battle in the street.

In the streets, the military were being slaughtered by their mindless adversaries. Billy began to experience a horrible sense of deja vu as the carnage continued. Daniel, seemingly uncaring about the senseless massacre, cursed the rescue helicopters for being late. Natascha began to shake, fear had finally seeped through the defences in her mind like a disease infecting a body.

"Heeeelp...help us...sniper guy!" a terrified voice roared up from the scarred street.

Billy and Will scurried over to the edge and looked down onto what now looked like an abattoir. Blood ran through the gutters and into the drains like rainwater during a storm, the zombies feasted like blood-crazy beasts in the wild. The lucky victims were so badly eaten they would never regenerate into the monsters, others, some almost untouched, got up from their pools of gore and joined in. In the distance, crows began to gather, waiting for the last gunshots to cease, waiting to join the party, to peck the last morsels from the dead.

Down on the sidewalk, screaming hysterically as the creatures advanced, stood the young lieutenant and two troops. They were calling to Billy to rescue them. Thinking quickly, Billy spun and shouted at his small group.

"Rope! I need some kind of rope!"

Still shaking, Natascha reached round and grabbed a length of thick cable that she kept attached to her rucksack and tossed it to Billy. Tying the cord around his waist, he dropped the other end down towards the panicked soldiers.

One at a time Billy felt the weight pulling on the cable the troops heaved themselves up on the rope and ran vertically up the face of the building as if they were on an assault training course. The senior officer leapt nimbly onto the roof and Billy waited for the second trooper as he felt the weight of the man's body pull down on the cable.

A sound like roaring thunder hammered into Lambert's eardrums, tearing wind whipped at his clothes and blew his hair as he struggled to pull the weight of the second soldier up the vertical wall. The helicopters were here, behind him, over the sound of the screaming blades, he heard his comrades in arms whooping with joy as the metal skis of the first gunship touched down and kissed the hard tarmac surface of the roof.

The second soldier dragged himself onto the roof, his clothes spattered with blood that Billy couldn't discern as coming from his own wounds or his adversaries'. Just as Billy put his body back into position for pulling the weight of the third soldier, the second man flashed an indecipherable look at his lieutenant, which was returned with a slight, but grim, nod of the head. The instant Billy felt the tug on the other end of the cord, the troop flicked out a blade and slashed cleanly through the cable. A second later a blood curdling scream that dwarfed all the other, now diminishing, sounds of the frantic battle. The screeching lasted several seconds before tailing off in a snapping of bone and an agonised gasp.

Billy shouted in the soldier's face, his features contorted with his shock and anger at the atrocity he had just witnessed.

"You killed him! Why! You let him die!" he hissed through clenched teeth, his mouth millimetres from the face of the other man, his rifle raised to the trooper's stomach. The soldier just stared back into him, his battle weary eyes displaying no emotion.

"Hey! What the hell's happenin'?" Daniel's voice drifted to Billy over the deafening whirr of the blades, he had seen the incident too. The lieutenant broke desperately through the icy rage of the two glaring men. Billy could see that he was looking very concerned, he seemed to be trying to stop the survivors from turning against one another.

"They would have got him anyway," the senior officer said softly, almost patronisingly "They were so close they would have got him anyway. If he hadn't cut the cable they'd just have climbed up here and gotten us too!"

Billy sighed wearily and lowered his rifle. The troop's cold stare slowly stretched into a slight sneering grin.

"You're pretty jumpy, sniper boy," he sneered.

The thunder of the helicopter changed in pitch behind Billy as it rose slowly into the overcast sky with its full compliment of refugee passengers. Turning around, Billy saw Will and Jamie standing behind him, holding their weapons, staring suspiciously at the young soldier. He realised that when he had squared up to the troop, the duo had pulled their guns, ready for a firefight... that was one thing they could do without.

"It's OK, holster your guns!" Lambert instructed them. Uneasily, the trigger-happy old cowboy and the teenage survivalist shouldered their rifles. Billy turned away from them and stared, expressionlessly, down at the asphalt under his feet. His mind had not yet found an emotion to fit his situation so he just stood there, looking blank.

The first helicopter and its passengers, including Reed and Yeoh, was, by now, fading into the hazy, low cumulus clouds. The sounds of battle were gone, replaced by the shuffling of the walking dead, marching through the territory they had stormed like the Nazis through a conquered land. The faint sounds of crazily-driven vehicles faded into the distance as the few surviving warriors fled and the second 'copter was nowhere to be seen.

The lieutenant began barking into his short-wave radio handset. His hand kept rising and brushing his eyelids as tears began to weigh on his eyes, his voice broke as his macho toughness battled the urge to break down into hysterics.

"This is Lieutenant Bennel calling gunship rescue two, do you copy?"

"Copy that, Lieutenant. This is gunship-stroke-rescue two, over."

"Requesting immediate evac for three civilians and two..."

"Roger that, we know your position. Just sit tight, at present we are providing air support for the retreating vehicles. We'll be with you in ten. Over." Bennel swore angrily to himself. Pulling his assault rifle into his hand, he stormed toward the edge of the roof.

Jamie turned to the other soldier looking worried and depressed.

"We're losing this war, aren't we?" he said nonchalantly.

"We've been losing for months," answered the young troop, his voice shaking with tears "We've...we've lost already. There aren't many... humans left alive, not in this country anyway. As for the rest of the world...we just don't know, most communications are down. All I know for sure is that they outnumber us...thousands to one."

"Where are the 'copters going?" asked Billy.

"Rescue Station, just outside of Newark."

BANG! BANG!

The roar of two gunshots sliced through the darkening day. Bennel was standing on the edge of the building firing downward into the street, rage burning in his eyes.

"Sir, I don't think..." the young trooper began to call across at his superior.

He stopped his sentence in a rush of horror as a loud, wet thump echoed over the small group and a large red hole appeared in Bennel's neck. Everybody looked in shock at the lieutenant as he turned towards them with a surprised, confused look on his face. As he opened his mouth to speak, a dribbling of arterial blood came forth instead of words. Then his eyes rolled and he fell in a pool of red on the tarmac.

The young soldier screamed like a frightened child as he watched his commanding officer dropped dead.

"Who...who shot him?" stammered Billy, his face pale with fright, "Who could have shot him..."

As if in answer to Billy, a victorious wail rose from the street and a second bullet cut up into the sky.

"I didn't know...I didn't know they could use guns," stuttered Will, "Jesus! They must remember, they must remember...remember some stuff from before!"

The soldier fell to his knees, weeping uncontrollably. His tears fell to the ground and dripped into the little stream of drying blood on the asphalt.

"We can't win!" He cried at his lieutenants corpse "They'll find us and kill us no matter where we are, whether we're here on the roof or in a rescue station or in a bunker, they'll get us eventually, there's just so many of them! And when they find us we will become THEM!"

Billy and Will exchanged worried glances. The soldier was falling into the dark recesses of madness.

He continued his rant, shouting at nobody in particular, his voice sounded strangely sane and sober from a man who was breaking down into insanity. He dropped weakly to his knees, yanking his service pistol from its holster and pushed the barrel against his temple. His face displayed grief and horror but also some kind of warped realisation was showing in his eyes; he had discovered his escape route from the Deadworld...a bullet in the brain.

The others stared frozen and surprised at the soldier's sudden insanity. Suddenly, Will dived at him, aiming his body at the gun before the soldier could pull back the hammer and fire.

"Noooo!" bellowed Will as he threw himself at the troop like a boulder. As his body was about to plough into the madman's shoulder and knock the weapon away, the soldier's fist flew up with surprising speed and force, smashing Will in the face. A loud, brittle crack sounded as Will's nose cracked and he fell backwards, moaning with pain.

Before Billy or Jamie could react, the soldier turned his pistol on Will and fired one straight shot clean through the boy's forehead, ending his life in a microsecond and a splatting burst of grey matter.

Lambert and his comrade stared with hatred and shocked rage at the psycho. Their weapons were drawn, aimed at a point directly between his eyes, but they didn't fire. They just glared at him.

"I did it for him," whined the soldier "He will never become one of them now! He is safe now; where he is, nothing can ever harm him again. He is free!"

He saw the hatred and sadness in the eyes of the others, he looked into the cold, blank barrels of their guns that were fixed on him.

"Go ahead, shoot me," cried the trooper, "Finish me!" he looked upwards into the dim, grey sky and screamed "TAKE ME LORD..." A bullet pierced his cranium, cutting off his speech. His body flew backwards and landed on top of the lieutenants corpse. Billy calmly blew away the smoke that was floating out of the nozzle of his assault rifle.

The two survivors stood over Will's body for a moment, a tear fell from Billy's eye and into Will's head wound. Reaching down with a gentle movement, Billy closed the boy's eyes.

"Rest in peace, kid," he wept, before spinning around, screaming, and kicking the soldier's body with rage and grief.

He stopped, closing his eyes and listening to his breathing. The horror and depression of it all was eating into him like acid. He realised that mankind, in its human form, was ceasing to exist and he was gripped by an emotion that he had never felt before; it was as if he was feeling death, but it was the death of his whole species he was mourning. He was feeling an emotion that was locked away inside humanity, a sensation that can only be felt when one's race is dying.

"Oh, no," Jamie's voice came to him through the surge of emotions, it sounded scared and desperate.

"What is it, what's wrong?" asked Billy softly.

Jamie's right hand was clasped tightly against his chest, he was breathing heavily and was glancing around like a frightened and confused animal.

"It's ma' chest," he wheezed "I'm getting chest pains, buddy, I thinks it's my...my heart. It's on its last legs..."

"Shit," said Billy, now close to tears "Please man, please don't die on me here. Don't leave me here alone! Oh, no!"

"I'll be okay, it just hurts...damn!" hissed Jamie through his pain, trying to sound reassuring "When the helicopter gets here...they have doctors and medical...medical supplies."

As Billy moved to help the old man a sudden thud caused him to jerk with surprise. The door that led down to the supermarket was thrust open and a shocking sight advanced on the two survivors. Dozens of ghouls staggered out onto the rooftop, their jaws flexing and dripping with saliva and gore, their bodies mangled with bullet holes and bite marks. Dead, glazed over eyes swivelled around and locked onto the humans and the leading zombie's head rolled back and emitted a banshee-like, loud, shrieking wail. It was the feeding call of the walking-dead. The creatures had gotten into the store when the explosion had blown gates apart, among them was the badly burned and blasted body of Mike. Billy reached around and pulled the old man back behind him protectively as he moved slowly backwards away from the dead that were forcing them into a corner. Jamie almost fell over the edge of the supermarket roof, there was nowhere for them to escape to now. The creatures surrounded them in a semicircle, moving inward, cautiously but hungrily, towards their feast.

Lambert raised his weapon, he knew he didn't have enough ammo to deal with all the demons but he would never go down without a fight. As he was about to fire his foot brushed against something on the ground, it was the body of Lieutenant Bennel...and without warning it grabbed his leg in an iron grip.

"Bastard!" roared Billy as he fired into the dead lieutenant's skull, shattering it to smithereens. Some of the creatures flinched as the sparking flash of his gun lit the darkening rooftop like a flash of lightning. They were frightened by the sudden burst of flame-like light.

The nearest ghouls were now less than two meters away from the terrified humans. A sudden explosive thought ripped Billy's mind: Fire. They were scared of fire, he could buy some time. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small, disposable Bic lighter. As he fumbled with the lighter the nearest monster grabbed his jacket, a small flame jumped up on the end of the lighter. The zombie glanced at the fire and recoiled, moaning with fear.

Billy held the little flame down to the corpse of Bennel. The lieutenant's clothing caught fire first time, in less than three seconds, his whole jacket was blazing and the smell of burning flesh reached Billy's nose. The creatures were falling over one another to get away from the flame, their fear eclipsing even their insatiable blood lust.

Jamie's hand clutched Lambert's shoulder tightly, Lambert realised that the old man's pain was worsening. He began to pray inwardly for Jamie, he didn't want to be alone. Lambert lowered his own police combat jacket into the flames. The demons were no longer retreating, they just stood in a semicircle once more, waiting for the flames to die down and staring at the men. As the plastic lettering on the back of his coat began to melt and distort in the flames he whipped it from the fire and dragged it through the air like a burning torch, flailing it back and forth in front of him. He was moving towards the zombies now, he waved the burning jacket at them and they recoiled away from him.

The sound of helicopter blades was fading into earshot, growing louder as the gunship approached, their last hope of return to safety and civilisation.

Flames were burning Billy's hand now. He was holding it tightly in front of him like a shield. A path was appearing slowly as the creatures moved away from the flames like vampires reacting to a crucifix.

"Go back to hell...MONSTERS!" Billy found himself screaming at the ghouls as the reached out at him, staying as far away from the fire as possible.

The helicopter was visible now, its searchlight was beaming down onto the roof, picking out Billy and Jamie huddling behind their shield of fire.

Billy began to wave the burning jacket in the air as a signal to the chopper until a large tongue of fire licked up and burned his hand. He let out a scream and dropped it to the ground and the army of zombies advanced, grabbing at his clothes and limbs.

As he fought to keep the clamping jaws of the monsters away from Jamie and himself, he heard the terrifying sound of the helicopters engine fading into the distance. They were being left for dead.

A creature, trying to bite his arm, began to tear at the fabric of his shirt with its teeth. Pushing all his weight behind his shoulder he rammed the ghoul, sending it falling backwards and knocking down several other zombies behind it. Jamie teetered over the edge of the roof on the other side of Billy, he was clutching his chest ever tighter and his face had become a mask of stabbing pain, Lambert grabbed him by the collar and pulled him safely away from the drop. A monster clutched at his throat, its hands tightening as it tried to yank out his windpipe. Billy slammed his fist into its face knocking it onto the asphalt.

"Try and make it to the bridge, they're too clumsy to be able follow you across that narrow plank," Billy told the old man.

Lambert kicked the burning jacket that now lay smouldering on the ground. It soared in a fiery arc like a meteor towards the bridge. The creatures backed away, creating a temporary path through the zombies.

"NOW! LET'S GO!" shouted Billy, grabbing Jamie and helping the old man run down the gap between the demons. Cold, clammy, bloodstained hands reached at them, grabbing at their clothing, trying to drag them into the jaws of death.

"Ok, Jamie," said Billy as they reached the bridge "Get over into the house, I'll take care of this!"

Jamie staggered across the wooden plank, whimpering with pain and still grasping his chest.

Billy planted punches on the faces of the two nearest zombies, knocking the weak creatures backwards. He managed to reach the corpse of the dead madman and grabbed a grenade from his body. The creatures clawed at him and one almost sank its teeth into his shoulder before he pulled away and retreated back to the plank.

Some monsters moved towards him, as he stood halfway across the bridge, a few walked in a straight line off the edge of the roof and headfirst down against the solid concrete below.

Pulling the pin on the grenade, Billy roared a primal scream of rage and vengeance and lobbed it perfectly at the doorway to the roof where it lay for a couple of moments before detonating and destroying the zombies' only access to the top of the supermarket as the stairway below caved in on itself.

"Come on you beauties, this way," growled Billy under his breath as more of the dumb ghouls walked off the edge of the roof in their pursuit of their feast.

Billy stood, almost victoriously, on the bridge, his figure silhouetted against the dim sky. Then he turned and strode purposefully back into the tenement building.

Climbing in the window, Billy saw a sight that made his stomach tighten. On the carpet lay Jamie's body in a lifeless heap.

Crying and raving hysterically, Billy tried for several minutes to resuscitate the old man but when his eyes flicked open and locked on him they were not the eyes of a human.

One shot in the head took care of the thing that was once Jamie. Billy knew that like every other human, Jamie wouldn't have wanted to be one of them. His body was tossed into the street as Billy mumbled, "Rest in Peace."

Then he was alone.

Billy turned his mind away from his past, away from the memories that stung like hot needles. He opened his tear-moistened eyes. He knew living in the past was the quickest way to become mad but the past was all that he had to keep him company.

Out in the city, the dead droned in a weird and frightening harmony, the sound of hell on Earth. Hairs on the back of Billy's neck began to stand on end, the sounds of the living corpses never failed to chill him to the bone.

Billy had long since decided that his story had drawn to a close. He had always felt that he had no future other than living here in his tenement by himself and perhaps moving to another part of the city when food ran out. But today, as he reminisced on his post-apocalyptic life, he had realised that there was still a possibility that Natascha, Daniel and the others might still be alive somewhere out there in the Deadworld. Perhaps he would go out there some day and search for them.

Some day he would break free of this prison of death and make a final attempt to seek out the last bastions of Man...

Marie, meanwhile, slept like the dead. Her heart rate went so low that at one point, Jenna literally thought it had stopped.

And then suddenly in the night, it was over. Within another hour the tables were turned and the battle was won. Alex and Marie slept peacefully, not in the sleep Jenna had used to prevent madness from such pain, but their own sleep, an endlessly deep, healing sleep. Iyana, who had also suddenly teetered quite literally on the brink of death, was the same as well, perfectly normal.

The next day, Alex started healing-miraculously. His wounds knitted so quickly you could watch it. The radiation was flushed out. Jenna lifted the sleep. He awoke, good as new.

What did you do? he asked Jenna, who was there for his awakening.

"We have contacts," Jenna answered, "but don't go round testing your newfound indestructibility."

I have three times my power! Alex exclaimed.

"Yes, we were told that might happen," responded Jenna.

"But...?" Alex began, but Jenna cut him off, as if knowing what he was about to ask.

"We've given it to Marie and Alison as well. They're healed and whole. And we've revived Iyana and hers and Cianan's human bodies. We'll exchange their souls. Then you, Marie, Mark, Alison, Iyana, Cianan, Ashlee, and Stephen are headed to Dimension Four. They're having issues." Jenna filled him in.

Everyone has more power! Alex said, surprised.

"Oh, yes, that was supposed to happen," Yuon said, joining the conversation.

"And ... I smell ... well, some might call it a taint and some not. It's a clean taint, an alteration," Alex observed.

"Ah yes, that makes sense," Jenna said.

"Quit being cryptic!" cried Alex.

Jenna wasn't even startled. "It's an infection," she said, and smiled.

"More infections?" Alex grumbled, "aren't there enough infections? I mean, T and X are running rampant, one in the world I came from, the other in an almost identical world, one I saw in a dream. Can't we do without infections? I mean..."

"Oh, this isn't just any normal infection, and not any T or X either," Jenna replied.

"Quit being cryptic!" snapped Alex.

You'd better be careful," Mark said to Jenna, "it sounds like he's almost ready to start tearing things up, oh, I mean ehp."

"Mark!" Alison cried, "don't imitate Linda Kelly!"

"Who is this Linda Kelly?" Stephen asked.

"Just an idiotic person we met before we ended up in Mid-World," Mark explained, "if people could be executed for being stupid, she'd have been the first one hanging from the nearest sour apple tree."

"What are these sour apple trees?" Stephen asked.

"Never mind," Mark laughed.

"You have to go. All of you do. The contact is scheduled to meet you in three days," Yuon said.

"That doesn't really give us much time to get ready," Mark contributed, "and how the hell'd anyone get hold of Iyana's and Cianan's human bodies? Last I heard, they were both X infected and badly injured to boot. Wouldn't they have revived as more Burial Ground rejects by now?"

Stephen opened his mouth, possibly to ask what a Burial ground reject was, but Yuon spoke before he could make the inquiry.

"Time magic was used to save their human bodies," she said, "When they died on earth, their bodies were almost immediately transported here and placed in my secondary laboratory complex in suspended animation."

"Your secondary lab complex?" Mark asked, "just how many labs have you got kicking around Miria?"

"Just the two," Yuon replied.

"And what else do you have in the second one?" Mark asked, "the mighty Yuonstein monster that's gonna wake up and rip Andelin a new asshole if she gets too far out of line?"

"Yuon does not..." Stephen began.

"It's a joke," Mark said in exasperation, "what the hell happened to your sense of humor?"

"Mayhap it was stabbed in its sleep one night," Stephen answered.

"I take that back," Mark said with a smile, "I don't think the stabbing was completely fatal."

"Mayhap not," Stephen said, "it is just when your jokes are involved that I begin having difficulties."

"Well, thanks," Mark said, attempting to put on a hurt expression. He didn't do a good job of it, though. To Alison, he looked like a first-time actor attempting to put on a serious face, whilst at the same time trying to keep from laughing.

"Cut that out," she said, poking Mark in the side. That was all it took. Mark began laughing, the attempted hurt expression dissolving.

That evening, as Alison was resting, Mark left Yuon's gardens and made his way back toward the open market in Tilian, knowing he was tempting ka. Every time he had attempted to purchase goods in Tilian's open market, he had either been attacked or held up due to slowness on the part of venders, but he knew they needed supplies, particularly food. If they were going to the version of Earth he'd seen in the half-dream he had experienced upon his return to Miria, there wouldn't be a handy grocery store open to buy food from.

He reached Tilian, and made his way toward the open market, which seemed to operate no matter what time of day or night it currently was. The only difference, as far as he could see, was that on some occasions, certain stalls were open, and at others, others were.

As he was completing his purchases, he saw, from the corner of his eye, a tall, dark-skinned Miriana, one who didn't look so much like a Miriana as she did what Yuon and Iyana called a Fae.

Deep in his mind, something stirred.

"Andelin," he thought, "I'm seeing Andelin for the first time."

He reached out, unconsciously, with the Touch, and sensed raw madness, madness, and something else.

"red," he thought, "red. The color of Alundar, the shade of infected roses, the hew of stars gone rancid."

His mind was repelled at the next moment by a jangle of Todash chimes.

"Kulanek," he thought, "that's what Alison sensed when she tried to read that child killing cunt, but what the fuck does Kulanek have to do with Andelin?"

But he already knew. Nuleiana, or Ayanim, or Zephoris, or whatever else she called herself was allied with Alundar, or mayhap she was only using him, and since Andelin was quite clearly infected by Alundar's presence, Janes Kulanek also had a hand in what was going on, even on Miria.

"Does this mean the corporation knows what's happening here?" he thought, "my dear gunslinger, does an X infected zombie kill and eat people?"

Andelin's eyes met his for just a moment, as if she sensed his attempt to probe her, and why not, she was a Miriana, and as a result, telepathic. During that endless moment, Mark felt an unexplainable feeling of hatred toward her, as if she were responsible for some wrong done personally to him. In his mind, words formed, words in the Mirian language, which he was picking up, thanks to his close proximity to and close association with Yuon and Tiannen.

"annae ar ulken, annae ar ulekki, lyllia ar el lenn, ennel aile. Heart of stone, heart of darkness, queen of the Red, daughter of death."

In another moment, Andelin's eyes turned from Mark and she seemed to vanish.

"What the fuck's going on around here?" Mark thought as he made his way back toward Yuon's gardens.

"And it was like I knew her," he told Alison as they sat by the pool a short while later, "it was like I knew her and didn't like her one little bit."

"I don't know, dear," Alison said, "but considering what we've gone through so far, nothing surprises me any more."

"If Yuon still thinks Stephen's diplomatic skills will be enough to stop whatever's about to happen here," Mark said, "she may have to think again. When I tried using the Touch, I heard the same thing you did on Earth when you tried to probe Kulanek."

"Oh shit," Alison said quietly, "maybe we should just assassinate her and save Miria the trouble of having a madwoman on the throne."

"Yeah, and how exactly would we go about doing that?" Mark asked, "we, unlike Yuon, can't just flip from place to place, therefore, we'd have a bit of trouble getting into wherever it is Andelin hangs her hat to kill her."

"That's true," Alison conceeded.

"I think we should rest," Stephen said, "we have, as you would say, places to go and people to see."

"How long do we have before we're called upon to go to Dimension Four?" Mark asked.

"Three days, according to Yuon," Stephen replied.

Everyone, not just Mark, Alison, and Stephen, took atvantage of the temperary lull to rest themselves. During that time, Simon and Iyana's human bodies were brought from Yuon's secondary lab complex, and the Miriana souls that had so lately resided in their right bodies were returned to them.

During that time, Mark discovered something that probably didn't matter in the cosmic skeam of things, but something he would carry with him till his final day of life.

He had entered the pavilian and had approached the bed in which Alison had rested, first during the formation of her wings, then during her time of healing following her first attempt at flight.

He saw, on the bed, the pinkish blanket-like covering that had been wrapped round her for the majority of her stay in the pavilion, and reached forward to touch it. Immediately, the blanket, or whatever it was, moved of its own accord and rubbed against his hand, making a soft cooing sound as it did.

"What the...?"

Mark jumped back in surprise, only to nearly collide with Jenna.

"It will not do you harm," Jenna said, a smile crossing her face, "it is a silkin."

"A what?" Mark asked, feeling as if he had just finished up in Wonderland.

"A silkin," Jenna repeated, "they are creatures that bond with other life forms, provide them with comfort, and aid the healing of hurts."

"Where'd you find those?" Mark asked.

"It was not I who found them," Jenna answered, "Yuon brought Alison's to her. As to who originally discovered them, I know not."

"Silkins," Mark said in wonder, "just when I'd thought I'd seen it all, something new comes along."

Three days later, Yuon gathered Mark, Alison, stephen, Iyana, Simon, Niamh, Alex, and Marie together. They were all prepared and strong by then. Jenna and Yuon were the only ones who knew what had been done and would not tell them. Marie, Alex, Iyana, and Simon smelled the new infection, the taint-that-cleansed as Alex had begun calling it. Jenna and Yuon would exchange infuriating little smiles when they puzzled over it. "They'll see, they'll see," Yuon had said once, and Jenna had grinned. Alex wanted to shake them. What did they know?

"You're being sent to a secret facility. Our contact will meet you outside. They're resisting the hand that the Corporation has in their world, and with you they may succeed. With the power that you will bring to these people if you succeed, you will also save another world. Dimension Five, your own Earth, and Dimension Four are coming together. If you save that world with the power that your victory will bring to it, you can also save your own, because it will be merged. Off you go." Yuon gestured. They were gone.

They stood on a windswept desert inside a heavy chain-link fence. Standing waiting for them was a young woman with ice-blue eyes in her sharp-featured face. Beside her was a figure somewhat like Nightstalker, but of notably less psychic power. He also hadn't had Jenna and the rose to aid him and he appeared to have been roughly carved out of old, dark stone.

Iyana, Simon, Marie, and Alex were standing alone.

"We were told there would be eight, not four of you," said the woman, "or rather nine, eight adults and one child."

Ashlee, Stephen, Niamh, Mark, and Alison were gone.

They could feel Alex's mind sweep out, crossing through interdimensional gateways, searching.

They're here, he said. They are trapped. We can not get them out or we will also be trapped.

"Wanna bet?" said Iyana.

"Please, just believe me," Alex responded, "we can't get to where they are without finishing up there ourselves."

"You have six super-infected, designed breakers even!, and you can't just blast your way into some fucking maze..." Iyana began.

"It's very old magic!" Alex returned, cutting her off. "I might be able to take two or three if you're willing to risk it with me, but not all of you ... certainly not all of you. No, not all of you. And not the one we would most need besides myself, anyway."

"Why?" Simon asked.

It's complicated. I've never encountered magic like this. There is a young man in this world who must be found; a person with you knows him," said Alex suddenly. "He can get in and out by teleportation. None of us are natural teleports. He is. When the dimensions crash, some of the power of the silent keystone will abate. We're not supposed to crash into it, but it already has; Five is moving on. A lock on a lot of that inaccessible power will also be weakened. He'll know what I mean. When the dimensions crash I know where to find him. Until then, they're on their own.

"How do you know this one will side with us?" asked the one who was like, but unlike Alex, the one Mark would have recognized immediately as Nemesis.

"Oh ... I think he will," Alex said simply.

"Who is he?" Simon asked.

"His name is James," replied Alex, "I see no more."

They went back to the facility, where Steve had just awakened. The first think Simon, Alex, Marie, and Iyana noticed, was that he looked a great deal like Mark Rimer, only without the hardened look of the gunslinger and the haunted eyes of long experience, some of which stemmed from Mark's travels in his own world before he had met and fallen in love with Alison. They also noticed that Joy looked more than a bit like Alison, but not with Alison's sureness, and certainly without Alison's Miriana-like wings.

"What's going on here?" Simon asked to nobody in particular.

"This is a different world," Alex said, "but it is also another layer of Earth's dimensional axis. Everything and everyone, or almost everything and everyone, is duplicated, only with some differences. Here, for example, the corporation is known as the umbrella Corporation, the infection is somewhat different, and Janes Kulanek is not in total control of the forces that are attempting the destruction of this world. I believe the one whose eye is most on this world is the one Jenna, Stephen, Mark, and Alison refer to as the Crimson King, but she is here. I smell her. She's out there, somewhere."

Back on Miria, Yuon, Tiannen, and Jenna were alone in the pavilion. Jenna had served them with something she'd made specifically.

They sat down together and for a long moment said nothing.

Yuon reached for the cup, lifted it, and stared into it, something clicking in her brain.

"I know what's in here...Lazarus-T is in here, she thought. Jenna knows. Jenna can never have another child. I wonder ...

She deliberated for a long moment.

"You drink it," she said, pushing it to Jenna.

"But ... I'm not ..." Jenna began.

"It will increase your power," said Yuon, gazing at her. "And believe me, you will need that in the time to come."

Jenna looked at it. "I can't, Yuon."

"You can." Yuon placed her hands around Jenna's, "and you must. If you wish, then save some of it."

Jenna stared at it. Swirling within the liquid essence of life was a miracle immortality serum that could not only make her indestructible but give her the power to create a child...and she was holding in her hands something people would scramble over each other, biting off their own limbs if that were to become necessary, to get. She shivered.

"It's too powerful," she said. "It can ignite raging, unstoppable fires in a million worlds. It's ..." She trailed off.

"Dangerous?" said Tiannen. "It most certainly can be, but it is not. Not now, not yet, hopefully not ever."

"Hopefully," said Jenna, and making the decision before she could find an excuse not to, she raised the cup with shaking, unsteady hands and drank of it.

It was the essence of life but she felt something sharp in it, clean and cold, suffusing her with more life. She set it down before she could drop it, folded her hands, and waited for them to stop trembling.

The Little Doctors responded by swirling up and around her. Unthinking, she made a cut in her arm and before it could knit, the Doctors swarmed through, taking and circulating the infection. Every new Little Doctor created would also be infected. Every new child created would be infected. Eyes nearly glowing, Jenna pushed the cup back to Yuon.

"Do it, mother," she whispered.

Without hesitation, Yuon picked it up and drank, and then gave it to Tiannen, who drained it.

In her palace, Andelin felt the echoes. She'd seen James Franklin land, and knew what he'd brought to Jenna.

And she would have it, if it was the last thing she did.

But Andelin could wait. She was not reckless and impatient like Janes. If this was Janes's task, she'd get herself killed. She wasn't insane like Lord Gulyan. She was careful and cautious and cunning.

She would make herself immortal...and increase her power three-fold.

"State of situation?" it was the voice of James Franklin, speaking from the improvised radio rig before which stood Alice. James Franklin was once again in his Tardis, once again traveling in vortex mode.

"Currently blue," Alice returned.

"Food supply?"

"Twenty per cent."

"Medical supply?"

"Thirty per cent."

There was a sigh. "How're you pulling through, Alice?"

"We'll be okay," Alice replied.

"We need you guys," James said, "we need to make some headway against the degeneration. If we don't..."

Alice smiled humorlessly. "Yeah, I know that. the Tower falls, all existence ends, and the one you call the Red King wins, or maybe it'll be that other one, but there's been a change in situation. Nemesis brought us three who can help us, and others have arrived from another world. They're the ones you told us to expect. Not all of them, but some."

"What do you mean not all?" James inquired.

"Five of them either didn't make the trip or finished up somewhere else," Alice replied, "the one who looks a bit like Nemesis said they're… I don't know, in some sort of trap."

"The ones who are there, do you think you can keep them alive for us?" James asked.

"I'm pretty sure I can. If I can't, I've failed," Alice answered.

"You won't fail us, Alice. I have faith in you. We all do. That's got to count for something,"James said, surprising a smile out of Alice, who rarely smiled any more, not since the world had begun its new job of going to Hell as quickly and completely as possible.

"Thanks for that, James. Look, would you know anything about ...?" She gave the name Alex had given.

"You'll be lucky if you can find him alive. He's had demons after him for ... God doesn't want to know how long. These things are vicious. If you decide to ask him for help, be careful," james said, "if I can do anything to insure his safety, I will, but I'm probably gonna need some help there."

"Steve and Jenny have had demons after them for years, too," Alice said.

"They're not like this one," James said. "This thing took out a country with a little more than a thought. I believe it was originally raised thanks to spells found in the Necronomicon. I saw every demon on that parallel, and the thing attracted quite a few, they tore the place to pieces, killed everyone there, and made the entire area uninhabitable."

"Jenny wants to know how Iyana's doing," Alice said.

"She's begging to be able to help. I've half a mind to have them merge," james replied.

"Not this close to a dimensional crash!" cried Alice. She bit back an: "Are you mad?" She knew that he wasn't mad, not even close...he was brilliant. Maybe with a touch of madness, but there's always a method to that...and that's just part of what makes one brilliant is that bit of madness, that willingness to listen, occasionally, when the madness speaks to you, and this time Alice knew it was speaking to him.

"I think I can risk getting her through," James said, as the transmission ended.

There was no change in Yuon; if anything she grew weaker, whereas Jenna grew stronger. Jenna began to feel that somehow, Yuon's body had not reacted well.

That night Yuon fell and could not get back up. Jenna insisted she stay in a bed. From there, Yuon began to fade.

When Jenna sat beside her, Yuon told her that something had known this would happen...and hit her with the Plague of Mortality, the only disease that could kill any immortal.

But it couldn't kill Lazarus...or could it? No, if it could kill anything immortal, then it could.

"Don't tell James, please," said Yuon. "He wanted me to live; I know he told you to give it to me."

"He'll find out, anyway," said Jenna quietly.

"Oh, he will ... but I don't want anyone flipping out over me, I won't have it,"Yuon said weakly.

"They'll do it anyway," Jenna said.

A darkness stalked the broken world, a dark horror emanating bone-freezing, mind-numbing cold. It was cloaked in warped space; if you touched the thing it might tear you apart.

Hissing with the sound of dark, thick gases and roiling fires in deep caverns, it swooped in low, its warp-cloak spread round it like dark wings.

It observed the sleek metal craft that slit reality and came through the hole, descending to land smoothly, silently, just outside the former Umbrella Corporation complex. The man that stepped out dwarfed everyone waiting for him except Nemesis. A girl followed him, barely seventeen. The girl with Nemesis and Alice stepped up to her.

They were identical, each five foot four inches tall, each about one hundred and twenty pounds, each with light brown curls, each with the curious color-changing eyes. Within the folds of its cloaklike shield the demon watched.

"We've been working on this device," the man said. He flicked his hands and a disk came floating out of the craft, attached to something within by fine wires. It landed in the outstretched hand of the girl standing with him.

The other moved forward. Placed her hand on the disk, palm-down.

There was a startling flash, their bodies ran like water, and then there was only one girl, one five-foot-four, hundred-and-twenty-pound, curly brown-haired, multicolor-eyed girl standing there.

"It worked," said the man. "I was not sure it would."

The demon hissed within itself with rage, a rumbling like thunder, the gases at erupting point. It swirled angrily, gathered its folds in against its substance, and streaked into the sky like an erupting bullet.

On the ground, James Franklin looked up and saw it.

"Gods help us," said Jenny-Iyana, noticing it.

"We'll be dead if they don't," said James. "I'm going back. They have to know." He strode back to the craft, then turned to look at them, his face serious.

"Good luck. I mean it."

And he was gone, the strange craft speeding into the sky, reality bending and blurring around it, it sliding through the distortion ...

And it, with him in it, was gone.

Jenny turned to look at Nemesis and Alice. "You know the guy that Alex mentioned? I know him, I've known him for years."

"Yes."

"You better find him now if he's still alive, or he's a dead man."

The thing soared through the sky in its black hole of evil. It circled over the remains of a deserted town. It entered a window.

There was a young man of perhaps nineteen or twenty sitting beside the window. The demon knew he'd been waiting for it.

He looked up and the demon could read the knowledge in his eyes. He was going to die, he knew it.

His gaze burned on the demon's flickering ghost of red eyes.

"You can kill me, but not what I've left behind," he said quietly. He rose to his feet and stood before the demon. They stared at each other for a moment.

There was the sound of breaking glass from behind the demon. A girl landed in the room, picked broken glass off her arms as the cuts miraculously healed, and-

The demon struck with blinding speed. The girl was on its back, heedless of the terrible tearing of reality around it. She spun it off the astonished young man, landed on her feet, and rained a series of quick punches into the thing before it could react. Back and forth across the room they fought. The demon tried to wrap a warp net around her. She threw it off as if it couldn't tear her apart at all, as if it didn't affect her. With flicks of her mind and a blinding speed born of adrenaline, anticipation of the thing's movements, an alteration in her body that had happened some four years ago (as it had been caused in the bodies of all on her planet), and a grace born of psychic talent and natural lightness, she rained broken glass into the thing.

"Hold on!" she told the startled young man, picked him up with supernatural strength, kicked the wall open, cast a shield behind her, and soared out the side of the building all at once. She dropped to the street below. James was waiting in his craft. She pushed the young man in ahead. The demon grabbed her.

"Go!" she cried.

"No," said a voice from within the craft. Something flew at the demon from behind, something large and human and unaffected by the warp, but too fast to make out. Jenny was only unaffected because she was protected. He was unaffected because of what he was.

The demon was down. James was a blur of movement. "Kill it," he said, "kill it now..."

The demon screamed, and it was hideous, like the scream of a Nazgúl. The thing somehow threw James off and stood with its, reality-warp wings outspread. The three of them stood facing it.

"You have the ability," said Jenny. She opened up a link between her and the younger James. "I give you the power."

"No," he said.

"Do it, dammit."

"No. It will kill both of us."

"I'm not Jenny anymore, I'm not ... fully the person I was. I have far more power. Look at me. You will see it. I'm not just altered, I'm not even human. I'm a special case." She gave a forced, humorless smile.

The demon's dark wings began to descend.

"Do it," she said. "Do it or I'll somehow make you do it-or I'll try myself."

They turned resolutely to face the demon.

And as the dark warped wings came crashing down on them there was an explosion of light. Jenny sank back to sit on her heels, the light blossoming out of her and using James as a conduit to manipulate it.

He raised both hands. The demon came crashing down on them and the force of its momentum should have sent him flying. But it didn't.

"I can't die," it said with a voice like black fire.

"You can," said Jenny quietly. "Eat shit and die, you sonofabitch." The light increased.

But James sensed her strength wavering. "Maybe ..."

"Do it, dammit, I can't die. I'll only go into suspended animation at the worst." She pushed energy at him, waves of it, and he was forced to accept it.

The demon screamed, writhed in agony, its wings drawing in convulsively around its spasming body.

There was a grating footstep and a gunshot, but it was too late. The younger James went down, a bullet in him.

"Shit shit shit," said Jenny, as Janes Kulanek appeared. "You better have impressive backup-this is evil itself." She tried to rise but found she'd lost too much strength, and she had to sit back down.

"Well, well. Look what we have."

"I certainly hope you can take whatever backup she has on your own," said Jenny. She crawled to the younger James and mentally examined him. He was fading. "I hope you have something handy, James, or we're screwed," she said to the older one, who was facing Janes.

"Get him inside if you can," he told her. "Wait for me." He sighed. "If I don't come back ..."

The younger James's eyes struggled open. He spoke so quietly between shallow breaths that you could barely hear, let alone understand him. "You shouldn't have to do this."

"And you won't have to die."

There was nothing further to say. As Janes went for them, he blocked her, and with the last of her strength, Jenny pulled them in, the door shutting of its own accord behind her.

On the cot in Jenna's pavilion, Yuon awoke. Her wasted body burned with a fire that would consume it quickly, and Jenna could not ease it.

"It awakens my essence. I cannot retain this body, this shape," said Yuon. She subsided into a coughing fit that racked her frail, light, birdlike frame.

At that moment, a figure strode through the pavilion's entrance, the figure of a man Yuon had known she couldn't avoid.

"James," she rasped when she was done coughing. "This body is dying."

James stopped and looked down at her. This shouldn't be happening!

"It burns," Yuon whispered. Tears fell unheeded down Jenna's face, and she turned a look of such raw anguish up to James that it was heart-rending. "This shouldn't happen!" She was so tiny, lost, fragile-looking, bereft, distraught, shaking uncontrollably. She bent her face again and unheeded, her dark hair fell in a shining curtain, obscuring her face.

He couldn't stand that look. If Yuon died, would Jenna die? No, she would be cursed. Lazarus would not let her die.

A ray of white light burst through the roof of the pavilion, an ancient voice spoke.

"Remember, Ascended eternalis."

And the light surrounded him, entered him, and was gone. He glowed dimly with it, like the moon was rising under his skin.

Eternity was commanding him. And eternity was the only thing that could do so.

Ascended eternalis, the voice had said. Was he that?

This was not the time to ask that question.

And then Yuon's body burst into flames, turned to ash, and-

And without thinking, he lifted both hands and lances of white light struck the fire. It reached up, wrapped around his hands, and ...

They should have burned and then automatically healed, but they didn't; the fire was like a warm breeze.

Ascended eternalis.

He held fire, felt it hold on to him ...

And something responded, soft grey light that extinguished the fire and swirled like a warm grey blanket around whatever was left of Yuon.

He lowered his hands.

There was complete silence.

The Little Doctors had left Yuon and now surrounded Jenna, soaking up her tears, singing gently to calm her. She let them. She felt numb.

The smoke cleared.

What lay there looked like a human body. You'd have to be an idiot to believe it was, though.

The skin was shining white, like porcelain. The face was sculpted like that of a queen, with high, curved cheekbones, an elegant nose, flawless skin, and grey eyes, eyes the color of the Mother Grey, the Essence beyond the Fire. There was an undefinable quality about them; they were captivating and beautiful.

They were the eyes of an eternalis. They did not all have the same eye-color, but there was always that ageless, gemlike, eternal quality that was the most remarkable feature of an eternalis you caught at first glance.

Jenna sent a contingent of Little Doctors to the suspended body, which was slowly awakening.

What she found was something she'd never seen before. The heart was an organ system to itself, with a backup and complexities Jenna couldn't even begin to understand at a glance. Yuon's body was now so different from any that Jenna had ever seen and so much more complex, and Jenna gave it up.

Yuon's triple-eyelids flicked back. She stared out, aware and awake.

"Yuon?" said Jenna softly. James merely watched her. Eternalis! But of course! Only an eternalis could live for ... nine trillion years, that was the answer.

"Who are you, Yuon?" Jenna asked, awed.

"One of the last true-eternali. Eternity used another eternalis to call me." She looked up at James. "I see it in you. Eternalis blood. Eternalis power."

"Am I that?" he asked. He was standing in the presence of one who had seen the Outside, who'd been born directly of Fire and Essence, of Mother Grey and Father White.

"You will be. You are close. You will be. Go now, both of you, I believe there are things to be attended to."

They both left. Yuon rose, dressed, and padded out, moving with all the grace and agility of a dancer-or maybe it was all the silent, beautiful grace of a deadly cat. In this form she was swift and light-footed and seemed a being used to far heavier gravity than this, but her body was denser, more resilient, strengthened, able to survive uncounted time, able to be suspended for uncounted time, made to withstand the demands that would be put upon it.

She stood in the sunrise of Miria. A rising sun painted her gleaming white and gold, the rich green of her Miriana clothing shimmering.

She looked on the world of Miria and, sighing, gestured, as if she were pulling great folds of an invisible fabric into her hands. For a minute she glided forward, then dissolved, gone in a flash.

She was eternalis-and, as she lived eternally, so she was eternally solitary. There were no eternali born in millions of years, and the last one to attempt Ascension died at first stage.

But there was hope.

There were two left. Few who attempted Ascension had ever survived. But they showed promise.

And if she could never bear children, she could have children of the heart. To her, her children had been Alai, Maerlyn, Maerlyn's sister Keyra, Iyana, Jenna, Marie Vannay, although Marie Vannay had always been more of a sister to her than a daughter, and James Franklin.

Would any of them outlast the Discord? Alai was dead and Maerlyn gone from the memories of all save her, awaiting the time when he would, if The One willed it, return. Marie Vannay was currently in another dimension, fighting the Corporations hand in that world, Iyana and James were indestructible ...

Or were they?

Was anyone?

Was time itself unbreakable? Or could sheer vast nothingness itself crush their world? And what lay beyond the Fires? She'd grown up in the Outside, in a world so limitless you could not believe it was real.

The Fires had swallowed that world. The Fires encroached upon the walls of this universe.

What driving force lay beyond them? Even this, Yuon could not know. She'd lost nine apprentices, four to the lure of the Outside, three because Ascension had failed, two to corruption, and those two had been cast into the Fires and eaten by the Mother Grey, the Essence.

What flickered beyond the bounds of the universe now?

Would infinity eat them alive?

Nemesis was gone. Alex could sense it. Alex followed the sense out to the rolling desert beyond the complex, and there he was, staring off into the distance as if seeing something Alex couldn't.

Alex padded up behind him on surprisingly quiet, light feet. He knew Nemesis knew that he was there, though if he'd snuck up behind almost anyone else like that they might have never known it.

"Empty, isn't it?"

"You get used to that," said Nemesis.

"That's almost ..." He tried to remember. "... sad."

"You get used to that feeling, too."

"What demon could do this to a world?" said Alex quietly.

"Umbrella," Nemesis growled. He tensed, leaning forward almost as if he could jump into the sky and fly, raining fire down on the Corporation like some avenging god, or more like some avenging demon. Slowly, the tension eased away.

"Janes Kulanek," said Alex darkly. Nemesis didn't reply.

A wind picked up, cold and biting, and whistled harshly away. It carried an icy scent. Alex's head snapped up and spun almost all the way round.

It carried the cold, clear, crisp, white scent of snow, pure snow.

"Smell that." Alex breathed deeply of the pure, cold smell. "It's like snows in the north of Miria. Matt, you should have seen Miria ..."

He forgets, thought Nemesis. In his excitement, he forgets. In a minute, even to him, I will again not be human.

But you're not, said a mocking voice, and he didn't dispute it.

When Alex turned back and Nemesis still remained expressionless and stony, he thought he knew why.

"You don't believe it."

"I do."

Alex opened his mind, tentatively reached out. He was sincere. Nemesis knew it.

"You don't have to be like this," said Alex.

"But I am."

"You can go to Miria, Jenna and Yuon can help you. They did for me. And look what they could do for me."

"I just thought you had better luck," said Nemesis bitterly.

"No, I did not have better luck," said Alex. "I was as bad off as you."

"Really?"

"Really. They can make you ... alive ... again."

He looked at Alex, disbelief on his broken face. "What do they ask of me? I have nothing to give them." He lifted both large, disfigured hands.

"Jenna's greatest joy is healing. To see you whole would be enough for her."

"Will you promise?"

"When this is over, I promise you will be whole again."

There was a distortion in the skies above Miria; something descended over Jenna's pavilion, space and time rippled round it, and there stood Yuon in Miriana form. But her one difference was her eyes, her eternalis eyes. She no longer had the star-eyes of Miria. She had unveiled her fully Ascended power and the eyes showed it, piercing grey orbs with a gaze like lances of time, wells of memory, eyes that were aged beyond reckoning, eyes with the powers of eternity, of time, of the Fires and of the Mother Grey, the Essence.

Yuon gestured, folding space to her and gliding through it as if it were thick smoke or water, and stood in the courts of Ithelian, underneath the Tree of Time. There were many small birds, every color of the rainbow, resting among its branches.

At the top were thirteen birds, each a different color. Together their colors formed the Mirian rainbow, Crimson, Orange, Yellow, Pink, Dark Blue, Dark Green, Indigo, Lime, Azure, Violet, Brown, Pearl Grey, and Black.

She gestured. The black one, quiet and majestic, its feathers somehow cold, landed on her shoulder. The other twelve circled her.

She strode into the palace, three on each side, three behind and three ahead, with the black one sitting on her shoulder.

Elandir, the blue-skinned guard, was waiting for her.

"Move, Elandir," she said. "Move, or I'll make you."

"I don't think so, Yuon'Lia," he said. "I have my orders."

"You know I know you are no friend of Andelin's, Elandir; now move or you will be very sorry."

Elandir stared at her for a minute with those stone silver eyes. "As you wish," and he smiled coldly, stepping aside.

Yuon ran with light-footed grace up into the highest court, at the foot of the Tower of Miria, Lillin Limarin Eniri, which Maerlyn, the forgotten one who would return, had once Ascended.

"Come down, Andelin!"

There was a shriek. "Never, Yuon!"

"Andelin, come down or evoke the wrath of the eternalis!"

Andelin spat from a high window. It widely missed Yuon.

"Madness, Andelin-madness! Black Thirteen has driven you mad!"

There was a reptilian hiss and the long, lithe body of the Queen flew from the window, wings outspread and lashing the air with senseless fury. She landed on Yuon, biting and clawing at her furiously. Yuon was a fluid blaze of speed, pinning Andelin beneath her foot, holding her arms and kicking legs down.

"Bitch! Bitch!" Andelin hissed. Spittle flew from her mouth, her voice again that grating, sibilant growl, eerie and cold and full of the senseless madness of todash.

There was a dangerous light in Yuon's eternal eyes. "I wouldn't, Andelin." Her hands flew as if over invisible keys. She performed intricate, complex gestures with fluid, exact precision, long, nimble fingers flying. Andelin's body was flung back against the tower, on a small balcony. Heavy black chains writhed around her like serpents, binding her there. For a moment, the chains remained black, then they began to glow with an azure light.

"May the light of the Azure, the only bend to be recovered by its maker, he whom you banished, hold you and battle the red essence within you," Yuon said, turned, shimmered, and vanished.

She left Miria-only to return as the suns set over the Emerald Planet.

Jenny sat up, flailing. Hands came down, pushed her back, and in her weakened state she couldn't resist them. For a moment she lay there gasping, dry recycled air in her lungs. She croaked. "Where?" Her throat was on fire. She went into a fit of coughing that seemed to last for eternities. The hands gently held her. She fell back finally, weak and exhausted.

She felt two people exchange worried glances over her. "Lazarus shouldn't let her deteriorate." It was the voice of James Franklin. "But she is nonetheless. Fucky little bugs." The hands released her and she fell back, shaking.

"Where doesn't matter," said a voice.

She knew that voice. In secret, she'd memorized that voice, and all its subtleties.

She loved that voice.

She could never have the owner of that voice. Never. He'd gently broken her heart, gently exiled her to eternity alone. Gently he'd denied her everything. Her eyes burned with tears that couldn't be shed.

It was James.

Jenny tried to speak. Fire raced through her again, paralyzing her body. She had been in a half-sitting position and fell back, gasping.

She felt a hand touch her face, brush back her damp hair. She knew that hand. It set tiny flames racing along her skin. With its touch, some of the great pain eased away.

A third voice spoke. "Her body is altering itself. I have set the process to begin."

"Yuon! She never had a choice to Ascend!" said James Franklin. He turned to Yuon.

The hand lifted and instantly the pain was back in full force, immobilizing her. She bit back a cry and stayed painfully silent, teeth gritted against the pain coursing through her.

Gentle, capable hands touched her face. She felt warmth well in her and the pain was bearable again. The hands stayed there this time.

She tried opening her eyes and her head screamed in protest. The hands on her head moved like restless spiders fluttering in her hair and the pain eased somewhat. She shut her streaming eyes.

"Look at her, Yuon. She should not Ascend for years yet. And we need her as she is."

"I have sped up the process," said Yuon. "It was a dangerous but necessary thing. Don't give her anything, anything at all-while her blood is changing."

"No shit, Sherlock, her blood chemistry would go all fucky," said Earth2 James.

"You and I both understand the risks of what I did. No matter what happens, James, don't do it."

"What's going to happen, Yuon?"

"Just believe me, she'll live."

"I don't know," said Earth1 James. "She doesn't seem to be taking it very well."

You can say that again, Jenny thought. I'm taking it about as well as I would if I got shot a bunch of times and got impaled on a spike. She smiled humorlessly at the parallel between the two. The pain returned again in all its fury, the hands moved gently, the pain eased.

"I don't know how much longer I can do even this for her," said Earth1 James. Earth2 James and Yuon were staring at him.

"I can make her sleep."

The hands moved involuntarily. Thoughtscapes came into Jenny's mind and then the mind drew within itself, the thoughtscapes beyond her reach. She felt that familiar emptiness. She tried to hide it from him but knew he could see it anyway.

"Put us in suspension," said Yuon finally. "I'll slow the process."

Marie woke up quietly but completely, not even her heartbeat changing. Everything was dark. Everything was silent.

"Hello, Alex," she said.

God dammit! he said.

"What, Alex?" Marie asked.

It's impossible.

"What is, Alex?"

Shut up, great one.

"Come up with something new, Alex. I said that first."

Oh God, it doesn't end, he grumbled. She felt him settle down to sit quietly beside her, and enter his trance state.

She lay there for a while, listening to the quiet.

From Alex came a telepathic wave, and she slept deeply for a time.

He looked down at her still, peaceful, delicate face. How quickly, how easily, that could slip away.

He wouldn't, couldn't-let that happen.

He could feel reality converging on him, great slow hands moving pieces into place with painstaking care, powers so ancient and alien they could not be comprehended, powers with the slow inevitable effects of water on stone, great old things that slept but when awakened were forces to be reckoned with, powers that swept across universes, breaking and changing and remaking in tides of blind madness, of senseless change, of time. Time marched on inevitably.

Gently he picked her up and held her, as if he could shield her from the forces at work in the world. She stirred and he drew her closer, sending her sleep.

They sat like this for a while. He mourned the loss of that calm, almost innocent beauty in her face. Now she was still just as beautiful, but older, more distant almost. He touched the delicate, sculpted ice-princess features.

Suddenly the walls shook, alarms blared, pandemonium broke loose. Alex was a blur of motion gathering necessities. Almost before Marie knew it he'd swept her up and was carrying her out of the room.

"Alex."

What?

"I can walk."

I know. But he didn't set her down and with blinding speed ran light-footed out to the elevators.

"Alex."

What?

"Put me down."

No.

"Alex!" She hit him. There was no give, he felt like stone. "PUT ME DOWN, damn you!"

"Get over it," he said. She glared up at him, mouth opening and shutting. She started squirming. It was no good. He was strong as steel. She started hitting him. "Put me down! Put me down! Dammit! I can walk!"

They were on ground level. The walls of the building shook, the molecules in the air vibrated.

Alice, Nemesis, Steve, Joy, Iyana, and Simon were there waiting.

"What happened to Marie?"

Ignoring them, Alex strode past them to the doorway.

His voice amplified and ringing, he called out, "I would advise you cease fire, unless you want six superbreakers on your asses."

There was immediate silence.

"Who the fuck is in charge here?"

Marie slipped free. There was a gun in Alex's face, but when the man saw who it was he stepped back into the shadows.

"We're looking for her," he said.

"You are going to learn one thing," said Alex in a dangerous voice. "You don't fuck with me." And as blood poured from the man's eyes, ears, nose, and mouth, Alex boomed out again, "Motherfucker, if I were you I wouldn't keep me waiting!" The man before him crumpled, dead, his head caved in. Alex kicked the corpse aside and strode out of the doorway, so he stood in the full light of the rising sun.

A ring of guards strode toward him. They parted. The man within was tiny, a skeleton with skin held together by tough cords of muscle. Alex was surprised he could stand. His eyes were wide, black, and glassy. His shoulders were hunched, his long thin arms dangling by his side, tipped by long, spidery hands. Those twiglike hands probably had the power to snap a grown man's neck, in fact they were probably more powerful than that. He was horribly disfigured and looked to be hundreds of years old, but that was merely a mask.

"I wouldn't," he rasped, "challenge me."

Alex wasn't startled. He'd never seen the infection do something like this, but anything was possible. This man was probably as indestructible as he'd been.

"You mixed T and X? Oh God, when I thought it didn't end ..." Alex trailed off. "You can't be that fucking insane." The man looked like you could snap him in half but he knew better.

The man breathed in a humming hiss and said, in that same buzzing rasp, "You want something real?" His eyes turned gray, the color of Alex's eyes, the color of Matt's eyes. "This is real." The buzzing hiss was surprisingly gentle, but gentle in a rotting way, like the buzz of a dying fly mixed with a sick teen boy's voice, and that peculiar rasping hiss of the infected. He hummed softly to himself and now it was a gentle, eerie sound, rising and falling. "This is real," he said faintly.

The guards looked startled, some puzzled, some uneasy. They'd expected something different.

"Been waiting for this moment. My final transformation, ya know," humm-buzzed the man. And as he hummed, he grew, and changed, and the hum with it.

His shoulders broadened, he shot up from four to eight feet in the space of minutes, his eyes turned a pearly silver, his body shifted, twisted, horribly disfiguring. And instead of screaming and falling from pain or the change in his balance, he hummed, a curiously high note. He almost crooned. It was eerie.

"My final transformation, you know." His voice was a throaty rasp now, and he reverted to that hum. Then he couldn't speak, and there was only a hollow echo rolling off him. His vocal cords were destroyed. He was mute.

And then his face split. He lifted hands that were still many-jointed and spidery, but now thicker and larger, to the splitting face, feeling the bones reform. A hollow whistle, a ghost of that high hum, came from him.

And then tentacles grew in rings from his body, long and eerily feathery, pale green and white, slimy and grey-brown. His skin ran over his features, fixed but still appeared half-melted.

He was a huge, hunched shadowy thing now, a monster straight out of nightmares.

He grinned, showing massive, crooked black fangs. Something moved, then he could speak again.

"Thought I'd give your friend a bit of a surprise, ya know," he said, his voice a sibilant rumble, like rocks grinding against each other, with an undertone like a snake's hiss. "Might ... remind him of something."

Something leapt past Alex, something large and dark and lightning-fast, and stopped within three feet of the other. It was a test of wills, of minds, a silent battle, eyes locked. No one dared breathe.

"You dared," Nemesis rumbled. "Motherfucker, you dared."

Madness leapt in the other's eyes.

"You dared try and break me!" Air molecules shook.

"But I broke you." The energy of the voice was lost, it was toneless and quiet and dark.

The other seemed frozen, madness in its eyes. It was truly inhuman. It had always been. It looked up desperately with empty eyes.

"Final transformation ..." it rasped, voice slurred. "Remind you of ..."

"What were you expecting?"

It looked away.

"You can't kill me. Shall I kill you?"

It didn't respond.

Alex shot it in the head. It glanced off.

"He doesn't die that way," said Nemesis. "He doesn't die anyway. He'll live like this until ..."

"Madness," it said.

"Have your madness," said Alex and sent waves of incoherent energy into it. It crumpled, twitched, seemed to curl in on itself and become small.

"You have no transformation," said Alex. "You have madness."

"I've created the sound of madness ..." it said surprisingly clearly, and then it died, glassy eyes opened and fixed. All color faded away and they turned into white milky orbs.

Fire burst around it and incinerated it to ash. Alex looked up and only then saw Earth1 James standing there.

"What was wrong with it?"

"Nemesis broke its mind," said Alex, and they noted the use of the former name.

They knew the woman that came striding up the path. Black hair swept back from a widow's peak, hawklike features sharp and almost glowing with the skin's paleness, blacker-than-black eyes, a nose that could cut cheese, and a full, red mouth, it was Janes Kulanek.

"I have a proposal for you."

"You dare ask me anything?" Alex asked incredulously. He'd always spoken when dealing with Corporation or anyone associated with Corporation. "Bitch, you're as mad as he was."

"I am not," she said contemptuously, "that thing."

"He was human once," said Alex quietly. "Even if he could never be again, even if he was already lost, no matter what he really was or what the hell you did to him, he was human once."

Iyana, Simon, Marie, and Alice stood in the doorway, just in the shadows. Alex, Nemesis, and Earth1 James were the only ones readily visible.

Where were Jenny and Earth2 James?

And where was Yuon?

Jenny's mind touched Alex's. He was shocked by the empty numbness of it, the utter darkness that had replaced all light. Her thoughts were a stark white outline, sharp and piercing.

I am here. I am alive, but not by my will.

The thoughts were so cold, so brittle, so empty, that it chilled him.

Jenny?

Don't ask, Alex. Please. Just listen. Listen.

Alex listened.

In the craft, Earth2 James and Yuon sat beside Jenny. They'd kept their silent vigil into the night. Earth1 James had left. In their own time scale, centuries had passed. Jenny's physical Ascension was complete. But she lay locked in a darkness that neither dared touch.

"This is how she died," said Yuon suddenly. "Locked in darkness. Someone was supposed to be able to unlock it, but not only could he not, but he died ..." Yuon trailed off, lost in her own nightmare of memory. "And when he died, she could sense it, and she sat straight up, and where her eyes were there was formless darkness and her soul escaped her, and her body burned out. Her soul was thrown out to the Fires; that's what happens to any fallen or failed eternalis."

"I think we know who can let her out-and how."

"And he can't," said Yuon. "It would be cruel to ask that of him."

At some point, Jenny's heart slowed ... and slowed ... until it almost stopped. And then she looked like some gracefully carved porcelain doll.

If you lift the eyelids, Yuon wondered, will you find the eyes of an eternalis ... or only a formless darkness, too terrible to name, its gaze a vortex of dark too cold and alien to survive? And would you hear Todash chimes when those eyes opened, when that darkness swirled forth?

They waited for the eyes to open.

Below the ground, the battle was fought from within. The six superbreakers and Earth1 James were in a central chamber of the Hive, from within striking death on the outside-but they risked terrible outside attack acting as battle mages for the Resistance. The room was tense with expectant silence. Steve and Joy, with much protest, had been sent to one of the lowest, safest levels. Outside, mindless insanity reigned. Inside, it was deathly still, deathly quiet, and a single breath could break that crucial stillness and send everything spinning. They seemed figures carved of stone, an odd group, one drawn together by fate.

Alex could feel something horrible threatening to try and choke him, twisting inside him, whispering mockingly in his mind. It was premonition. And ka was not smiling.

Oh dear. I'm picking up Mid-World speak. What next? he thought somewhat distractedly.

Their minds were linked by a great web. He could feel the life of each one, and for now they were all synchronized.

And then he felt something powerful swoop down and attack the net, wrapping himself within it, aiming for ...

No! He turned, his attention for the moment diverted, lashing out at the thing. The net swayed dangerously.

And then there was a warping, rolling effect to the room. Everything leaned, tilted, stretched into bizarre shapes, bent, broke, remade, ran like liquid and reshaped into terrible things, expanded, contracted ...

On the surface hell was literally breaking loose. James and Yuon had left the Tardis and thrown themselves into the fray. Pandemonium and chaos reigned as the effect had on the central chamber rolled outward, a tidal wave of madness.

There was a horrible sound, as if the very fabric of reality itself were screaming, agonized and tormented.

And then where there had been chaos before, what there was now defied description. Held by the net and by Earth1 James's power, the figures trapped in the chamber remained the only stable and solid things, while everywhere else reality screamed and shrieked and ripped itself apart.

"It's Armageddon," whispered Marie.

"That already happened," said Alice. "This is just the end."

Just the end.

Only the end.

Why fear? It's only the end.

Why fear?

Something terrible broke through the chaos of reality, a terrible formless darkness. And then there was Jenny's body, in the room with them. It trembled on the floor, skin thin, papery, and white. Its eyes were a formless darkness.

"You know what will bring me back." Even sound was distorted. Her voice sounded horrible, warped, inhuman, hissing with a harsh, almost metallic undertone.

"I know!" It writhed upward, or was thrown upward, or convulsed, or was drawn by a fold of reality, or something.

"What are you going to do?" it cried. "What are you going to do? It all ends now and the choice is yours, so what are you going to do?"

James sat frozen.

"I ..." he began but his voice was lost.

"All ends here!" And the voice was flung brutally at them by the changing. "All breaks!" Her features, which had been consistent until now, cracked, the bones moving like clay sculpted into something hideous, horrifying, a grinning mutant, a screaming monster, by invisible hands.

It was almost too fast to see. He was torn from the web and to her. On the floor they sat, she half-slumped against him, both crying unashamedly, silently. Jenny's eyes were no longer dark, face no longer changing.

That night, a certain white connection turned golden, and nothing was ever in any way the same for anyone again.

When it was all over they sat in the chamber, regaining their bearings. Jenny had fallen fast asleep. The rest of them, save Alex and Matt, were drained of color, huge circles under their eyes, drained of energy, of anything real. The Hive was still amazingly intact.

No one remembered going to sleep, no one remembered anything. They only remembered waking up, the events of the night before still fresh in their minds.

Only Jenny could not remember, so they told her.

"What have I done?" she whispered.

"Nothing," said James.

"Ka did it," said Shadow, surprising them all.

"Ka be like that. I been rememberin' lately. Not my name. Never my name." She sighed. "Just ... little things. Moments. A little girl. She be so pretty as you couldn't imagine. An' she had bright gold hair and big blue eyes. An' we lived away from all the trouble. But then one day, one day ..." She shut her eyes. "There be fire in the sky and birds fallin' dead, scorched at our feet. It be a beamquake. It be stormin' for days. The house done burned down. I done lost everything. And then one day, I woke up ... like I am. In that damned facility. Mindless an' cold I was. An' I went out from there, or they sent me out, I'm not sure which. Don' remember what changed me. I remember a woman, very young, with blond hair and the bluest eyes ya ever seen, and there be power in those eyes, and that be when I changed, when my numbness done gone away. She had somethin' to do with it. I don' know what she did, I don' remember that whole time, it be black, I remember her, and I remember layin' burnin' on the ground, there be fire all round me. I woke up and the fire be out. For years I been travelin' and lost track of time. I don' know time no more." She lapsed into silence and stared off into space for a time.

"But I know what ka is. One thing I known all along," she said quietly.

"The gunslingers talked of ka. Stephen was a born Mid-Worlder," said Alex.

"I think you can get into that maze now, Alex," said Iyana.

"We haven't even been outside," said Alice quietly. "We've probably lost everyone."

"God help us," said Shadow.

"God?" Alex rumbled. "In a world where this"-and that had double meanings, due to the fact that he was speaking-"can happen, is a world where there is no God. If God exists, He has left us behind."

"Maybe," said Shadow. Her alien white eyes held a weariness that was somehow unsettling, an endless bone-deep tiredness that went beyond the combined efforts of the Hive the night before. It went deeper than that. It was the weight of years. Shadow might be ancient. Shadow could be anywhere from twenty to a hundred years old. No one could know. The child could have been her great granddaughter, or her sister. The little girl could have been her. She could be very young. Gods, what if they'd done this to her when she was still that little? What if they'd tried experimenting on a child, to see what they'd get? What if she was little more than fifteen or sixteen? What if she'd aged decades in the space of days, mentally and physically? What if she'd been a lost lonely little seven- or eight-year-old girl, who'd never gotten the chance to be a child and never, ever would?

What demon put the weariness of centuries into a young girl's eyes? Alex thought in shock.

The infection. That's what demon could make a girl of sixteen be a woman in her eighties, sick and tired of life.

Then again, it was unlikely that the little girl had been her.

The little girl was her daughter, Alex realized. He hadn't realized that he'd linked up with Shadow.

"Marie," said Shadow suddenly. "That be the child's name. Though where she be now, I don' know."

"Marie Vannay-Andris-Merril-Davis!" said Alex.

"Who?"

"Abel Vannay's adopted daughter, married Cortland Andris at age thirteen, adopted by Pop Merril when she walked in, married John Davis in 1992, he died of a mysterious incurable cancer," said Alex. "Stephen Deschain told me about Marie."

They all sat in silence.

"Are we going out?" asked Marie.

"We better get it over with," said Alice. "The last of the change is finished."

All of Time fell at my feet and cloaked in darkness I was not but a darker piece of the night...

Light stands at the heart of the dark, do you not know? Light holds the dark in check. Without light darkness will swallow the universe whole.

A blue eye opens.

A black shape approaches.

The blue eye closes, satisfied.

The black shape hovers, clearly distressed. It makes a whining distressed sound.

Then all the world goes up in a flare of blinding white, a black rectangular shape outlined in sharp contrast at its center. It explodes open and so does reality, fracturing, shattering, ripping into a thousand pieces like breaking glass.

A woman is watching the night sky. She stands in a high, shrouded place. She watches the white flare. There is deep sorrow in her eyes.

She looks down on the city, teeming with life, teeming with madness. She feels that her time is ending. She knows that it is.

She sways dangerously in a sudden gust of wind. Something silver flashes in her hand, catching the bloody red light below. She plummets to the dark. Fire consumes her body, hungry red flames eating her broken figure.

A man in black watches and smiles coldly. He has vanquished the magic.

But the magic reaches from its fiery grave and strikes death to a world. If you kill me, you kill yourself.

A small, thin face, pressed against a cold metal floor, bloodstained and broken, dark eyes fixed and staring.

A mutant figure in a blackstone cavern, the space thrumming with dark power, its long white hands performing symbols of black magic. White bars of light close about him, he falls screaming into the depths at his feet. Shadows coalesce into a white box, which hovers for a moment and, apparently satisfied, winks out of existence.

The brilliant flare of an exploding star. The scream of a world in denial. Tears on a pale face. Dark eyes, staring into the sky, blinded by the whiteness.

A world withers away to dust. A people go with it.

Ilian's Hands, one White, one Black, vanish from the face of existence completely. They wait to return again.

A black shape hovers in a black space.

Sickly green light creeps into the dark space. Something flickers across the shape's metallic surface. Lights, shades of blue and purple.

Ruby brightness cuts the darkness and the thing moves with supernatural speed. White arcs of energy cut the darkness. Bodies fall to the ground. Darkness roils as the thing continues with the same supernatural speed throughout a labyrinthine cave system. It hums anxiously, knowing it only has so much time to get out, and no knowledge of this cave system.

There was no time! No time! The warning went off in its system. Ten seconds.

Damn consequences. Taking initiative, as it had only truly done several times before in all its millennia, it smashed its way through the reality-barriers. There was a whirl of bright colors that defied description, and it had ruptured the barrier and went shooting through. Somewhere in a citadel on the surface, alarms went off, but when they went to investigate there was nothing left behind but a scorched place on the stone floor. The breach sealed itself as if by magic, leaving no trace of whatever had the power to break it.

A man lies strapped to a table; he is so beaten, bloodied, and bruised that his body itself appears ragged. He is so thin that his bones seem like they will poke through his thin, translucent, cracked skin. His face is blackened. One eyes stares milky and dead, the eyelid crisped and in tatters. The other eye is glassy and staring. He barely breathes.

A bearded old man stands over him. He has entirely black hair and wears black robes. He would appear old and wise, if not for the mask of rage and hate twisting his features and the blazing fury in his eyes, a fury so intense that one expects it to strike silver sparks and devour the tortured man's body in unearthly, white-hot fire.

"You let him take it!"

"I did," rasps the dying man.

"You let the single most dangerous and miraculous machine in the universe go into the hands of some absent-minded fool who has proved time and time again he has not the strength to hold power?"

"He is not unworthy of power. The fact that it is not something he desires makes him more worthy than any other. He will not strike blindly with the Black Hand. It is more likely that he will send it away to a place where it will rest in waiting."

"You know where he has it, I know you do ... Ilian."

"That is not the name by which you knew me."

"No, no. I knew you as the last, not the first."

A white light cuts through the gloom and the old man falls unconscious, perhaps dead. The straps fall back as if by magic. Telekinesis, Ilian thinks, but he is too weak to move.

A black shape coalesces out of the shadows and hovers above him. It whines anxiously.

"I'm not going anywhere." Ilian sighs. "Not this time."

It settles down beside the table. It is watching him, still and silent. It knows. Does it understand death? No, no, if it did it would have self-destructed long ago, Ilian thinks. Or maybe it does understand death.

Ilian closes his one good eye.

"You are alive enough now to understand the nature of a promise," he says in a broken whisper. His breath catches. He jerks involuntarily. He is still.

A barely audible, unearthly sound seems to fill the room and shadows gather from the corners to surround the table. The black shape lifts into the heart of the shadows. Its sharp angles seem to melt and run together. Its shape simply slides out of existence. It leaves the shadows to fall over Ilian's body like a shroud.

It is alive enough now to understand the nature of death.

A figure pads from the room some hours later. The figure of Rassilon still lies fallen. The shadows follow him, cloaking him, as if even at a distance the Hands aid him. He is dressed in plain white. His scars are gone, but one hand remains stubbornly blackened, the other almost ghostly in comparison. The blackened hand remains stubbornly useless, the skin cracked and the fingers twisted. He stops, braces himself, and carefully cracks each one back into place, binding it in strips torn from his shirt.

He continues on throughout the deathly silence of the maze. The vaulted halls are echoing and cavernous, the rooms beyond dark, lit only by faint, flickering, weirdly colored lights.

He telepathically links with TAVI.

Connection established.

I need directions, can you hack the net without letting the whole of Gallifrey know?

Do you underestimate me?

He smiles humorlessly. No. But I don't underestimate Rassilon, either.

Good point. A few seconds later, a glowing image springs up in his mind. You're here. A blue dot flickers into life. You need to be ... here. A red dot flickers in a corner. Then there will be enough of a window to get you out by. Hurry though. I can't stay masked forever.

Ilian flits like a white shadow through the maze. There is no sign that he has recently died; he is as light-footed, swift, and silent as an elf.

Can you go faster?

No!

Well, you have no time!

Ilian curses inventively. The halls echo, the walls throwing his words tauntingly back at him.

Should we break through?

No, no, you'll get yourself ... killed, he says.

TAVI picks up on his hesitation and his wording. Yes, but if you die, you can't be replaced. Big difference.

He stops dead in his tracks.

You think I can replace you?

You have the original designs, says another voice, an older, deeper telepathic voice.

Something undefinable crosses his face. You can't replace life.

The silence clearly questions him, but he continues on. That was the typical selfless nature with which they'd both evolved, and it was at times both touching and, from one perspective, annoying. The original design? Damn the original design! Why, the original design doesn't include an actual living mind, which is what has evolved, and even if it can be recreated it can't be the same and can never be as good. And what if something does happen, he is forced to design another, and it doesn't evolve at all? It will merely be a very intelligent, cleverly made piece of machinery. They are possibly the most irreplaceable things in the universe, anyone's mind can be uploaded to another body, theirs can not.

He can feel TAVI's link still open in his mind, but he doesn't move to close it. Another telepathic link tentatively requests to open and he lets it.

He runs through the maze, following the floating dot that indicates him. For someone who was dead mere hours before, he is surprisingly fast and strong. One has to wonder what he'd be like at full strength. He silently flits through the underground labyrinth like a speeding shadow and doesn't even break a sweat or lose his breath.

He runs lightly up a dark stairway. There is a great entrance hall. In its center sits a white metal box.

It unfolds, expanding. Ilian runs toward it. "Go! Go now!"

White light seems to fall from nowhere, white light that sweeps him off his feet and holds him in its icy, burning palm. Reality shakes and tears, the essence of existence is rent open, but he is held within the eye of the storm, held safe by the strongest force in the macroverse.

There is a great surge of power and he is swept through.

Essence! he thinks. Pure, raw Essence! No, not even that, pure Fires, from which all universes are born. He can feel its thrumming energy, held in check by TAVI's power alone. Set loose, the White Fires from which the hearts of the stars are forged will consume the universe. There is no living being, not even Vares himself, who can control the White Fires without Essence aid. When Anti and the Fire split, they consumed all. The Essence became the balance between the two.

He can feel the energy burning through him. There is another presence amid the flickering whiteness. He shuts his eyes and clears away the power within and becomes the eye of the storm. He can not let the power burn him out; he won't have a body and he'll go back to ... He shudders. Best not to remember that. It had taken Tiyune and TAVI centuries and when they had gotten him back, they had, before anything else had been done, to remove a second personality that had bonded with his thanks to one of his escape attempts which had involved utilizing the bio data extract of one of the Timelords, a second personality that had added to the madness he had experienced as a result of being isolated from the physical universe for thousands of years.

The links open like white flowers in his mind and the pure exhilarating power of it shook the void within. But he clings to it and wraps himself in a cloak of shields. He can't undo the work of millennia; Tiyune depends on him.

More than Tiyune depends on him.

In her first life, she was Seleia, and lived for almost ten billion years.

On Anorai she was the daughter of the first Oracle, Elmarien, a line that lasted for fifteen million years, and she was called Lumarya, a name that, ever after, was one of great power. She grew up with her mother and her aunts, Limariel and Eliliel, in the city of which there is now a story, the Legend of Lost Salinin. She became the Lilaen after her mother.

As a Miriana, she was Aluria, Morgrim and Alai's only daughter, half-sister to Tiannen, and Torian, Keyra, and Maerlyn, sister in law to Tilena, a descendant of Alinorun the forest deity. She grew up in Yuon'Lia the Seer's gardens just south of Tilian in the far south of Miria.

As an Anorian again, she was Iyana daughter of Ilanit third daughter of the last Oracle. She grew up both in the polished, cultured, plastic courts of Khanail and in the rural villages of the Anorian wilds. At sixteen she became Anorian Ambassador to the eternali, precipitated by her mother's sudden death.

And then she vanished. For nearly six thousand years no one knew of her whereabouts.

From deep within the device which had snatched Omega from the clutches of Rassilon, a voice spoke. A voice that had not been heard in nearly six thousand years.

"Location: Earth, North American Continent, the United States of America, Alaska, Anchorage Earth calendar: Sunday, August 7, 2011 A.D. Earth time: 11-37 P.M. Alaskan standard."

Following the progress report, came thoughts, not of a machine, but of a living being.

"I believe I may be stranded here. On my way to Orfanishkarah, I was sucked into a vortex and, well, this is where I ended up. As it stands now, there is no way to get in, or out, of this dimension, due to a mysterious Black dimensional barrier that someone has taken great pains to put up. What is in this primitive backwater dimension that someone would take such pains as to build a Black barrier across the whole dimension and all inner layers, parallels, and reflections, to hide? You may consider this yet another example of my amazing knack of getting into tight spaces and then sliding out like smoke, but I intend to know why. And I must pose another question: What is powerful enough to keep me within the barrier? Whatever it is, it has done a very good job of it. But then again: Someone with that kind of ability would have to be intimately aware of the complexities of my design. The only being that I am aware of who possesses this knowledge went rogue thousands of years ago when he "died" ... or I should say, died of questionable means. I look on the world too kindly if I do not question his death.

I must get out of here soon. Much of my power is blocked off in this dimension, which is also very worrying. If I am blocked from my power for too long, I will die, I will not deactivate, I will not shut down, I will die. Thankfully I am a force to be reckoned with still compared to what they appear to have here, and I will hold out long enough to escape.

For now, I will wait, I will watch, and I will assume the mantle I have worn several times:

I will be nothing more than a harmless, if peculiar, black box."


End file.
